Ineffability (And How To Avoid It)
by Cati Jones
Summary: Set 20 years post-GO and after 5.22 of SPN. Dean's miserable. Sam's soulless. Castiel is beginning to fight a war he cannot win. Crowley is starting to hate his position. And Aziraphale is dead. But one choice, one single action, changes everything. Now, with the world hanging in the balance, an unlikely team must form to save it. Gabriel's welcome to stop laughing anytime now.
1. Chapter 1

IN THE MIDDLE OF MAY

On the outskirts of Sidney, Montana, there is a motel. It was probably nice once; all evidence shows that the cracked, peeling paint used to be orange, and some time ago, there was enough electricity to light up the sign outside. Despite these lovely qualities, however, nobody ever really comes to this motel. It seems that most people like to be able to read the name of the place at which they are staying.

The last man to stay at the motel left some time ago (much to the chagrin of the owner, who is now unfortunately struggling to get by). He was a quiet man, kept to his room, except when he ran out to the nearest store to buy a sixpack. To most people, he was known as Chuck Shurley. To those in the know, he was someone else entirely.

Of course, no one but him was in the know, so that didn't matter much.

He'd come to the motel on May 14, 2010. His car was nowhere to be seen, though he did have an old typewriter tucked under one arm. He checked in with little difficulty and retreated to his room.

The room was in a dreadful state, but Chuck didn't care. There was a table to put his typewriter on, and a chair for him to sit in, and a bed for sleeping (not that he needed to, and frankly, that bed didn't look all that comfortable now that he thought about it). That was good enough for him. He smiled as he sat, poising his fingers over the worn black keys. His days of writing _Supernatural _were over; no one would ever read what he was about to put to paper. But it was hard to get out of the habit of putting thoughts to words, so why bother? He smiled again. Besides, if he was right, things would finally be looking up for the Winchesters. There was the small issue of Sam's soul, but that would be resolved quickly enough. Nothing but smooth sailing… oh.

Chuck leaned back in his chair, no longer smiling, cursing his own shortsightedness (which was probably as blasphemous as one could get, but at the moment, he couldn't care less. Not that there was anyone around to hear him.)

Leviathans.

_Leviathans._

He'd brought Castiel back for a reason, but this was certainly not it! Surely he could think of a way to beat down Raphael without the use of such measures!

Apparently not.

Chuck closed his eyes for a moment and pondered for a moment. There was a solution to this somewhere, and he would find it.

Oh.

_Oh._

Unbeknownst to pretty much everyone, the more recent apocalypse could more accurately be described as Apocalypse Mark 2. Twenty years ago, the first attempt had been made in Britain. It was averted by the Antichrist (Adam Young, who basically said screw destiny, I like things the way they are, but that's beside the current point), a witch, a witchfinder (the two got married afterward), an angel, and a demon. The whole business was quite embarrassing for both Above and Below.

That may explain why, a mere two weeks after it was all said and done, some assassination attempts were made. On the angel and demon, specifically. In that sort of thing, it's only a matter of time before someone gets killed.

Long story short, everything resulted in a dead angel and an incognito crossroads demon.

The smile returned. Honestly, he didn't know why he hadn't thought of fixing it before, but that was all about to change.

Chuck Shurley began to type.

No, no one would ever read what he was about to write. But that didn't matter. As long as it was the right words, it didn't matter.

xXx

Ineffability (And How To Avoid It)

A Fanfiction of Certain Events occurring in 2010 mostly, in strict accordance

As shall be shown with:

Good Omens

and

Supernatural

belonging to:

Messrs. Pratchett and Gaiman

and

Eric Kripke

Compiled and edited, with Footnotes of a Recreational Nature and Precepts for Anyone Who Cares, by Cati Jones

xXx

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

Supernatural Beings

Chuck Shurley (God)

Castiel (An angel, and member of Team Free Will)

Aziraphale (An angel, deceased?)

Gabriel (A part-time archangel, part-time trickster, really bad at being dead)

Balthazar (Angel and runaway)

Raphael (An archangel, and very much against Team Free Will)

Hastur (A Fallen Angel and Former Duke of Hell)

Crowley (King of Hell, and doesn't do a lot of Sauntering these days)

xXx

Apocalyptic Horsepersons

DEATH (Death)

The others are on holiday.

xXx

Humans

Dean Winchester (A Brother)

Sam Winchester (A Brother)

Bobby Singer (A Hunter and Adoptive Uncle)

Garth Fitzgerald IV (Another Hunter)

Mr. Fizzles (Sock Puppet Extraordinaire)

xXx

Full Chorus of Monsters, Demons, Angels, Vintage Cars, and other not-so-rare and strange Creatures of Everyday Life.

And:

Whiskers (Stray cat and general Nuisance)

xXx

**A/N: Going to level with you, I've got no clue where this is going. If it's going anywhere at all. Drop me a review if you have any interest in seeing more.**


	2. Chapter 2

SOMETIME LATER THAN THE MIDDLE OF MAY

The sun was shining. The air was clear and crisp. Leaves floated to the ground, the last vestiges of autumn giving way to winter's chill. All in all, it was perfect, if only in this little bubble of space.

Crowley hated it. It was too… _peaceful_. After all, the world outside was in turmoil! Wars were being fought, people were dying (1), and British citizens were _still_ driving on M25. Not to mention that some _moron_ was trying to restart the apocalypse. _Again. _Well, not if he could help it. One he could stand, but the second one tried his patience, and to attempt a third? That was just an insult!

Which brought him to his point…

The recently appointed King of Hell watched a trenchcoated angel watch a Righteous Man rake leaves. He smirked. Apparently Castiel hadn't yet gotten out of his creepy stalker phase. Honestly, he didn't understand what it was about this particular angel. Claiming to leave a man alone and then spy on him doing yardwork? It didn't make sense. And then there were the personal space problems… (2)

_Anyway_... Crowley shook his head in an attempt to clear it. He couldn't afford to be distracted, not now. This could be the most important deal of his career. He needed to focus.

"Castiel," he stated, unmasking his presence. "Angel of Thursday." The angel turned around, and The King allowed a sneer to touch his lips. "Today's really not your day, is it?"

"What are you doing here?" Castiel snapped. If looks could kill, Crowley would've been discorporated within milliseconds. What was it with angels and their Ominous Glares Of Death™ (3)?

"I want to help you help me help ourselves_,_" he stated with amusement, enjoying the momentary look of confusion on Castiel's face as he worked through that statement. But as the angel opened his mouth to reply, Crowley cut him off. There was a time and a place for banter, and he got the feeling that this wasn't it.. "Easy, Casanova. I want to discuss a simple business transaction. That's all." Castiel's glare intensified; his eyes almost seemed to glow blue. Crowley fought hard to keep from wincing- he was not in the mood to be smote. Not today.

"You want to make a deal? With me? I'm an Angel, you ass. I don't have a soul to sell," he growled.

"Whoever said I want your soul?" Crowley replied, silently laughing at the reaction that statement caused. Suspicion, confusion, a bit of horror… Oh, playing with this one was fun. If he had more time, he'd be busy tempting him into one thing or another, but unfortunately, not only was he the King of Hell, he was also incognito. So, minimal tempting, if he could avoid it. Deals, on the other hand...

"Speak plain. What do you want?" Castiel asked sharply (and was that panic?), bringing his attention back to the conversation.

"Five minutes. Just to talk," he answered. "I swear, King's honor." The angel's eyes narrowed, likely suspecting a trap of some kind. Any other time, he might have been right, but not today. The fate of the world was at stake, and _that_ was something he didn't want to risk.

After all, he rather liked the world the way it was.

Castiel sucked in a breath, looking from Winchester to him and then back at the man again. Crowley lifted an eyebrow. "So, what's it going to be? Pull the Winchester out of his quiet, happy life? Or take a short walk with me? You won't regret it, Castiel."

Castiel hesitated. "Five minutes?" he questioned, and Crowley knew he had him. A grin spread across his face, an expression that would have terrified the living daylights out of any houseplants, had there been any nearby. With a click of his fingers, he and Castiel disappeared.

A cold wind blew through the space they had occupied, and Dean Winchester looked up from his leaf-raking, feeling an odd sense of loss.

xXx

"Where are we?"

Crowley smiled indulgently. He wasn't surprised that Castiel didn't recognize the place; he'd changed it quite a bit since he was last down here. "You don't recognize it? It's Hades, new and improved. I did it myself."

"This is Hell?"

"Give the boy a medal-" Castiel looked confused at this (4)- "See, it's much more efficient this way," he said, flapping his hand at the souls. "Even the murderous psychopaths don't like waiting in line. And once they're done, they go right back to the beginning. No paperwork!" So maybe he was bragging a bit, but most of the demons down here (coff coff Hastur coff) didn't really get the genius of it. Besides, he'd invented the concept of waiting in line in the first place, and the one he used to be able to talk to about it was long gone. The Trenchcoat Wonder was hardly a replacement, but maybe he would appreciate-

Castiel sighed. "You have four minutes left."

Maybe not. Crowley resigned himself to a boring, angsty conversation.

"Alright, alright. Down to business then. What do you plan to do about Raphael?"

"What can I do besides submit or die?"

Oh, for Go- Sa- _Someone's _sake! And the world was depending on _him_? Crowley was beginning to figure that he should have gone to another angel for this, whether Castiel was "Chosen" or not. Even Gabriel would probably be more helpful at this point (5)! "Submit or die? "What are you, French? How about resist?" He raised a finger to forestall the protests that were sure to come out. "Look, Raphael wants the Apocalypse, right?" He didn't wait for confirmation before continuing. "You say that you can submit or die, but either way, Raphael wins. You really want that?"

"Of course I don't!" the angel exploded. "But I can't _hope_ to match the power that he has! If I fight, I _will_ die, and you know that!"

"What if I told you that you didn't have to? Die, I mean."

Castiel stared at him. "I… If this is a trick, so help me, I-"

"It's no trick, Casanova," Crowley interrupted smoothly. Death threats got old after the first one. "Hear me out?"

A full five seconds passed before the angel made his reply. The souls shuffled forward one place. "You have one minute remaining."

Crowley took a step forward, clasping his hands in front of him. "Souls."

"What-"

"You heard me." He narrowed his eyes. "You say that you don't have the power to stand up to Raphael, and you're right. You don't. You're a Seraph." He paused, simply for effect. "But what if you had souls to sustain you, each one their own miniature nuclear reactor. That would even the odds, don't you think?"

"But where would-"

"Not only that," he continued, "but if you didn't have followers before, you certainly would now! Angels need a leader, Castiel, and some already want to follow you. With the power of thousands of souls at your disposal, they'd come flocking to you!" His voice softened. "Angels _need_ a leader, Castiel. So go and lead. Show them Free Will and Choice and all that crap." He smirked. "After all, your Father brought you back for a reason, didn't he?"

Castiel just stared at him, blue eyes wide. In that moment, he reminded Crowley of another angel, very different, and yet very alike in the astounding innocence they could show. Then, the eyes hardened, and the resemblance was gone. "Where would I get these souls, Crowley? Answer me that."

In another world, things would turn out differently. In another world, Crowley would turn to his borders and tempt the angel into arrogance and deceit. In another world, he would say, "Purgatory," and the angel would agree. Then there would be Leviathans, and death, and one thing after another, happy endings always in sight but just out of reach.

In another world, things would turn out differently. But in this one, the Boss decided to take a slightly more active role. One twisted event here, a thought pattern slightly altered there, and Crowley found himself saying:

"From me, of course. Hell has no shortage of the damned."

"And what would be my side of this arrangement, demon?"

Crowley's face twisted into a scowl, and he glared at Castiel. "This is not an _Arrangement_, Castiel. Let me make that perfectly clear. I don't make Arrangementsss. They alwaysss end in-" Crowley cut himself off and tried to get a hold himself, tried to push back the memories of tartan and spectacles and books and… _No. Stop it. _

"Did you… were you hissing at me?" Castiel asked, completely confounded.

Crowley's glower deepened, if that were possible (6). Bugger it, he had not established a new identity for himself for it to get ruined by a slip of the tongue! "No, I didn't," he stated, as evenly as he could. "You may want to get your ears checked."

"But there is nothing wrong with my-"

"_As I was saying,_ this is not an Arrangement, this is just a deal. Unless you have any objections." Crowley studied the angel for a moment, to see if he did, indeed, have anything he wanted to add. But he remained silent, and if he was still thinking about what had happened, he didn't show it (7). "Now then, I am prepared to loan you… oh, let's say… 200,000 for your war effort." This may have seemed like a generous amount, but relatively speaking, it really wasn't.

"In return for what?"

"Two conditions. One, you give them back when you're done with them."

"And the other?"

"Getting to that. Quite simply, kick Raphael's arse in to the next millenium."

"I don't think that's po-"

Crowley sighed. Castiel had to be the most clueless angel he'd ever met. "That was a figure of speech." He sighed again, looking the angel up and down. "Do we have a deal, Castiel?"

Castiel hesitated, indecision the prominent emotion in his eyes. Crowley waited patiently as he thought through everything, looking for the traps and finding none. "Why do you even care, Crowley?"

He lifted his eyebrows. "And here I thought that was obvious. Raphael wants Apocalypse Mark Three." At this, Castiel cocked his head, but said nothing. "I don't. It's bad for business, and besides, I happen to like the world the way it is." He inwardly rolled his eyes at the look the angel gave him. "Oh, come on. This is the best deal you're going to get, Castiel. I'd accept it if I were you."

There was another moment of silence, then: "I'm not kissing you."

Crowley let his features fall into his customary smirk. "If you insist. You're not really my type, I suppose, though I'm sure you could use the practice."

"Are we done?"

"200,000 souls, coming up."

After Castiel left, Crowley sat in his throne room, (not) listening to one of his lackeys read out some sort of land distribution agreement paper thing. His mind was somewhere else. He just hoped that The-Little-Angel-That-Could would be able to pull it off.

He'd be damned (or blessed, whichever) before he let Raphael start another apocalypse. It was a slap in the face to all he once held dear, and the King of Hell wouldn't stand for it.

xXx

(1)- Not that he cared very much. He viewed the general populace pretty much in the same way he viewed pedestrians.

(2)- Because despite what most people (and by most people, he meant the Winchesters) thought, the majority of angels understand the fact that humans, for some odd reason, like to live in their own personal bubbles. Demons generally felt the same way, though there had once been an angel who Crowley really didn't mind encroaching on his privacy.

(3)- Surprisingly enough, it was Samandriel that came up with the thing. While looking after one of the Words of God, some monster or another had come after it, but upon seeing the look on the angels face, it apologized profusely and went to go find a PTSD counselor.

(4)- Because he really needed to get out more (though Crowley wasn't sure if even that would help).

(5)- And not only was he a dick, he was dead too, so that was saying something!

(6)- Any of the aforementioned imaginary houseplants would, at this point, be simultaneously growing as tall as possible and begging for mercy.

(7)- He _was_ actually, trying to figure out what exactly Crowley had against arrangements. This was not something he'd find out until later, though, and while he was smarter than some people gave him credit for, he did not figure out that Crowley was saying it with a capital letter.

**A/N: Well, this turned out slightly more serious than I was aiming for, but I think the footnotes (also more than I was anticipating) balanced that out, don't you think.**

**Next chapter: We see exactly what happened to our favorite bibliophile, and Soulless Sam meets up with someone unexpected.**


	3. Chapter 3

SOHO, ENGLAND, 1990 A.D.

The rain fell down in soft sheets, pooling in the gutters and the sides of streets. This was uncharacteristically the first good rain this area of England had gotten in a while, and it had come quite suddenly too, leaving no time to grab useful things like ponchos and umbrellas. _And it would have to be today,_ the realtor thought sourly. _The _one _day in weeks that I've had to make a house-call, and it's a bloody downpour!_ He quickly dashed across the street to arrive at his destination: Mr. Fell's Book Store. He snorted as he pushed the door open. What a _creative_ name.

The first thing he realized was that he should have brought his asthma inhaler. Even just walking seemed to stir up clouds of dust. _Good God, how does this man stand it?_

The second thing he realized was that the store was marked clearly: on one side, there seemed to be old and probably very valuable texts, and on the other, there were books from authors like Stephen King and Roald Dahl. There were fewer of the second than the first, which, for some reason, the realtor did not find surprising.

The third thing he realized was that there were two men behind the counter staring balefully at him. One was slightly short, wearing… _Good God was that tartan? _and acting as if his very existence was a capital offense. The other was taller, and was one of those rare chaps who can pull off all-black without looking tacky. Dark sunglasses covered his eyes (1), but his raised eyebrows appeared to indicate that he was surprised that he'd dared set foot in the store.

The realtor coughed a few times and moved toward them.

"Good day, sirs-"

"It really isn't though, if you think about it," Sunglasses interjected cheerfully. "I mean, you're sopping wet. Must be uncomfortable."

The realtor looked down at his clothes. His very nice suit was indeed thoroughly drenched. It couldn't have been helped, because he didn't have an umbrella (2), but it made him feel a bit irritated, now that he thought about it.

"Makes you feel a bit irritated, now that you think about it, doesn't it?" Sunglasses continued in the same tone.

"_Crowley_," Tartan hissed. "_Stop that._" He sighed and turned his attention to the realtor, the expression on his face slightly warmer. "I do apologize for him, sir. Crowley can be a bit…" He trailed off. "Well…" He cocked an eyebrow, apparently at a loss for a good word to describe his companion. The realtor couldn't blame him. "I am Ezra Fell," he finished, extending a hand to shake. The realtor took it.

"Mr. Jones, from J. J. Black Realtors."

Mr. Fell sighed. "I assumed as much."

The realtor was not expecting this. "Sir?"

"Mr. Jones, this is, by far, not the first time that someone has come to pester me into selling the store," he stated. The other man, Crowley, made an odd choking sound. "Before you waste any more of your time, I would like to say on no uncertain terms that I am not leaving my shop."

All the arguments about how _don't you think it would be best for all the people around you if something more modern occupied this space _and _it may be time to move on and find your future _and such died on the realtor's tongue as he viewed the serious look on the store owner's face. "Well, I, er-" At that moment, he broke out into a fit of coughing.

"Oh, dear, it must be the dust!" Mr. Fell moved around the counter and placed a hand on his back, guiding him toward the door. As he did so, the coughing mysteriously eased off, until the tightness in his chest had completely vanished. "Here, you'd best be on your way."

"But-"

Mr. Fell wasn't having it.

Only a few moments later, the realtor was standing outside, an umbrella in his hands, wondering what in God's name had just happened (3).

xXx

"I really don't see what's so funny," Aziraphale grumbled, making his way to the front of the counter.

"The look on his face!" the demon crowed. He leaned on the counter to support himself, shoulders shaking with mirth. "This one was the best one yet!"

"Crowley…"

"And they just keep coming! You'd think they'd learn, but no-"

"_Crowley._"

Crowley paused mid-rant to look at the angel. "What?"

"It's _not_ funny. They're...annoying. Why don't they understand that I don't want to sell?"

Crowley shrugged. "They're realtors, angel. Like sharks, them. No reasoning with them."(4) He smirked. "I bet the next one-"

"No." Aziraphale raised a hand to stop him. "No more realtors. Not today."

"Right. Fine." Crowley wiggled his eyebrows and propped his head in his hands. "In which case...where were we again?"

xXx

The loud, metallic ringing of the phone pierced his fog-weighted mind. Crowley moaned and turned over in his bed. He may not have needed sleep, but that certainly did not mean he liked to be roused from it.

Drowsily, he disentangled his legs from the sheets and stood up, blinking at the time displayed on his alarm clock: 4:27. Who in Go- Sa- Who on _earth _would be calling him at this time of morning? Who'd be bothering to call him at all, for that matter?

Unfortunately, there could only be one answer to that.

The demon snatched up the phone and pressed the blinking CALL button. "Hello?" he demanded.

"Hello? Crowley? Is this- can you hear me?" The angel's voice sounded desperate, and Crowley's heart clenched. "Are you there?"

"Yes, of course I'm here. What's the matter?"

"Oh, good, I was worrying that it wouldn't work this time."

"Worrying about- What? Aziraphale, what are you on about?"

"I… nevermind. Listen, Crowley, I think I'm being watched."

A shard of ice lodged itself in Crowley's spine. _I'm being watched._ Words he'd never wanted to hear. Not from Aziraphale. Though, frankly, in light of the recent assassination attempts on himself, he probably should have been expecting something like it.

"Alright, angel. Can you see anybody?"

On the other end of the line, Aziraphale hesitated, presumably looking around. "Not yet."

"Just hang in there then. I'll be there in five."

"Please hu-" Suddenly, the angel gasped. Crowley could hear a noise like rushing wind and then voices in the background. _Oh no. _"They're here!" Aziraphale yelped. "Crowley, they're-" Then, nothing but static came through.

Crowley slammed the phone back on to its stand, one thought running through his mind. _Get to Aziraphale. Get to Aziraphale. Get to Aziraphale. _He rushed out of the door, not stopping to put on his shoes or even change out of his pajamas (5).

Not even for one second did he consider leaving the angel to his fate.

xXx

From the moment he saw the store, Crowley knew that he was too late. Trying to suppress a sob, he parked the Bentley and lept out, leaving the keys in the ignition. The door hung halfway off its hinges, and it fell off as soon as the demon pushed it.

The interior was in an even worse state than the exterior. Shelves were knocked over, and books were scattered all across the floor. Gingerly, he righted the overturned front desk and placed a few books on it. It made practically no difference. The shop was still nigh on unrecognizable. Any hope that he may have still had withered and died in that moment. There was no way that the angel would have let this happen to his precious collection.

The body sprawled half-buried under an overturned bookshelf.

"No." Crowley could barely recognize his own voice, so hoarse had it become (6). His feet moved of their own accord, shuffling closer to the angel. _His_ angel. His knees gave out, and he fell.

Aziraphale's blue eyes stared up at the ceiling, wide and unseeing, his spectacles mangled and shattered a few feet away. His face was contorted into a grimace, as if his last feeling had been of agony. _Of course it was,_ Crowley thought. _He was killed, you moron._ At this thought, the self-composure that he was trying to hold onto shattered. A hysterical laugh bubbled up within him, but it swiftly turned into sobs.

Killed. Aziraphale had been killed.

He was gone. Dead.

And he wasn't coming back.

For this was no simple discorporation. The angel's wings spread out on the floor beneath him, the once pure-white feathers nothing but ashy imprints (7). Blood stained the floor around him, the reason for it sticking out of his chest, silver hilt gleaming. An angel blade.

Which could only mean one thing.

This was not the work of Hell.

Crowley's golden eyes narrowed even as the tears fell, his thoughts becoming sharp and focused. Heaven had killed his angel; there was nothing left for him here.

So he'd take the Bentley, put it in storage. He'd keep on paying the rent for the shop and his flat, but he'd never visit, not ever. Then, he'd go somewhere else. France, maybe, or America. He'd build a new identity for himself, so no one, not even fellow demons, would know who they were actually dealing with. Heck, maybe he'd even properly possess someone. Maybe.

He'd grieve Aziraphale for the rest of his life. Little things every day would remind him of what he'd lost, and keeping up his new persona would be a struggle. But for now, he knew one thing for sure. Heaven had killed his angel, and for that, they would pay.

Even if he had to rule Hell to do it.

xXx

(1)- Even though it was pretty dim in the shop already. It was, the realtor decided, like one of those bad detective shows from America in which all the authority figures wore sunglasses in the dead of night. Though somehow, the man _still_ managed to make it look good.

(2)- Well, actually, that wasn't strictly true. He did have an umbrella, but he'd learned from experience that people tended not to take you seriously if anything you owned had pink polka-dots on it. Thus, he kept it safely stowed at the bottom of the trunk of his car.

(3)- He never did find out, nor did he ever return to the shop. For the rest of his days, though, he'd wonder exactly where Mr. Fell had gotten the umbrella. After all, it had seemed to appear out of thin air, but that was impossible, right?

(4)- He decided that it would be unwise to mention that he'd had a rather active hand in inventing them.

(5)- After all, it wasn't as if anyone would notice what he was wearing. He drove so fast that even to the people who _were_ out on the streets this time of morning, he was nothing but a blur.

(6)- This rasp would soon become his voice day to day. It suited him, he thought. It was the same as how he used to speak, but not the same. Which was good. He wasn't the same either.

(7)- As he left the shop, he actually did find one undamaged feather, probably ripped out in whatever struggle had occurred. He tried to drop it, he really did, as demons were not sentimental, dammit! But the tears that still fell from his face claimed otherwise, and he ended up putting it in his pocket. And there it stayed. Sam Winchester caught a glimpse of it once, but got the distinct feeling that he shouldn't ask.

**A/N: Okay, I lied. Sam's not in this chapter. It was getting long, and I wanted to post something. But next one, I promise! Sorry this one took a bit longer, by the way. Real Life is being an absolute pain.**

**I hope my Crowley explanation is plausible. In my mind, the only thing that would turn GO!Crowley into SPN!Crowley would be the death of Aziraphale, since they're so different, you know?**

**Thank you so much for all the reviews! Each one absolutely makes my day! I don't think I've ever gotten so many for anything I've written, so thank you, thank you, thank you!**


	4. Chapter 4

SUWANEE, GEORGIA, NOVEMBER 2010 A.D.

_It was the heat of the moment! Telling me what your-_

Sam sat bolt upright, slamming the snooze button with enough force to bench press a cow. (1) Desperately, he tried to calm his breathing. It was alright. Dean wasn't here, he wasn't in Broward County, and the Trickster was dead. It wasn't even Tuesday.

No, it was Saturday, Sam thought as he swung out of bed. And a rather nice one too, if the sun streaming through the window was any indication. Of course, the night was bound to be interesting too. After all, it was a full moon, which meant that he could finally wrap up this werewolf hunt.

Kathy Fisher was her name. When he'd first spoken to her, he hadn't even suspected. But as the days of the full moon passed, and the vics piled up (one an ex-boyfriend and the other a tax-collector), all the evidence pointed to her. The clincher was when Sam'd spoken to her yesterday, and she'd revealed that she'd gotten a 'dog bite' a few weeks ago.

She didn't know what she was. She didn't know what she was doing. She had parents and a cousin who'd miss her. But he had to kill her anyway. He sighed. It was in times like these that he hated being a hunter.

Only, he didn't. Not really.

He didn't hate hunting in exactly the same way that he couldn't muster up any _real _sympathy for Kathy. Or much of any feeling at all, if he were to be honest with himself (2). It didn't bother him, though sometimes it was a bit disconcerting how good of a hunter he'd gotten. His mind was clear and as cold as an ice block, leaving him free of any emotions to cloud his judgement. The hunt got completed, and that was that.

Just as it would get completed tonight.

Sam strolled out of the motel room as if he didn't have a care in the world, ignoring the confused-looking man on the sidewalk. If he left now, he might be able to get to that diner he'd seen on the way in just as it opened. He could really go for some pancakes right about now.

"Ah, excuse me? Sir?"

Sam slowed to a halt halfway to his car and turned around. "Yes?"

The confused-looking man approached him, his eyes wide open in… what was that emotion? It appeared to be awe, but that didn't make sense. What would he be in awe of? "I'm terribly sorry to bother you," he stated, sounding surprisingly sincere. His accent was British. "but I seem to...ah, have gotten lost. Could you tell me where I am?"

Gotten lost? Right, because that wasn't suspicious at all. Sam faked a chuckle. "Had too much to drink last night?"

"Something like that," the stranger replied. He sounded relieved to have been given an excuse. _Liar_, Sam thought.

"Right, well, this is Suwanee, Georgia. Atlanta's about an hour's drive, but the place itself is kinda out of the way."

"Ooh! I'm in America, then? I suppose I should have guessed, what with your… ah, manner of speech." (3)

The alarm bells in Sam's head began to ring. The guy hadn't known he was in America? There's no way that that would… unless… and now that he thought about it, there was something in his bearing that reminded him of… "You're not human," he guessed, his voice as hard as flint.

"I… oh, dear." The stranger's shoulders sagged, and he looked down at his feet. "No, I'm not," he said. "What gave it away?"

"Furthermore," Sam continued, ignoring him, "you're an _angel_."

The man gaped at him, clearly shocked. "Oh, my. How did you… Last time I checked, the hunting community didn't think we existed." He paused, peering at Sam over the top of his spectacles. "You _are _a hunter, aren't you? It would be embarrassing if you weren't, for both parties, I imagine."

"Wait, you're saying you don't know who I am?"

"I'm afraid not, my boy. Should I?"

Sam shook his head, completely befuddled. This conversation was getting weirder and weirder by the minute. "Wow. Where have you been the past two years?"

"Two…? Oh… what year is it?"

"You don't know what year it is," Sam stated, trying to decide whether he should stab the angel and be done with it. After all, the heavenly hosts were never _anything_ but bad news. (4) But then again, he didn't seem overly threatening, and it wasn't like he had an angel blade _on_ him at the moment.

"No, see, I've… ah… not been around for a while."

The Winchester raised his eyebrows at this, the pieces coming together in his mind. "But not 'not been around' as in been in Heaven, because then you'd know who I am. And you wouldn't approach me. No, you've 'not been around' as in 'you've been dead'." And why not? The explanation made sense; according to Bobby, Castiel had been brought back right after he jumped.

If God had resurrected this angel, he was important. Sam knew that much. He banished all thoughts of the angel blade (5) in the trunk of the car.

The angel stared at him. "This is no coincidence," he declared faintly. "It can't be. I was _meant_ to find you."

Sam snorted. "You really have been dead," he decided. "Otherwise you'd know that Winchesters don't give a damn about that _meant to be_ crap."

At this, the angel's eyes widened. "Winchester?" he breathed. "As in, one of Robert Singer's boys?"

_What?_

_Have I met him before?_

_Oh, wait a second…_

The final piece clicked. The angel was wearing tartan. He'd met someone like that once. Someone _exactly_ like that. He smiled wryly. "Sam Winchester," he introduced himself, sticking out a hand. "Hello, Mr. Fell."

xXx

SIOUX FALLS, SOUTH DAKOTA, MID-WINTER 1990 A.D.

Dad was out again.

Sam supposed that he really shouldn't have been surprised. Dad was always out these days. But he didn't see why he and Dean had to stay here. He liked Uncle Bobby and everything, but Dad was just a traveling salesman. They shouldn't _have_ to stay here.

Whenever he asked Dean about it, he just said that he wouldn't understand. Which was stupid. He was seven years old, he could understand a lot of stuff!

He sighed, swinging his legs back and forth. Maybe that was why he came to sit outside so often. Out here, there was nobody to judge him. No annoying older brothers.

The sound of a car's tires on gravel made him look up. Usually, the only cars that came here were the ones that couldn't drive on their own. So the sight of an old, vintage-looking car pulling into the yard of its own accord was kinda surprising. And the two people who got out of it were even more so. They couldn't possibly have looked more different. One was dressed all in black, sunglasses and all, and the other was just… weird. Tartan? Wasn't that what it was called? In any case, he carried a big crate of what seemed to be books, which automatically gave him points in Sam's mind.

"Hi!" he called, as soon as they were in earshot. "Do you need help with those?" Without waiting for an answer, he raced down the porch steps and toward the men (6).

"Why, ah, yes, thank you," said Tartan, as Sam lifted one side of the book crate. "Ah, Robert never mentioned that he had children."

"You mean Uncle Bobby? Nah, my dad's a friend of his. We're staying while he's on a business trip." He smiled. "I'm Sam Winchester, and my brother Dean's inside."

"Well, it's very nice to meet you, Mr. Winchester. I'm Mr. Fell, and this is my associate Cr-"

"Yeah, yeah," the other, darker man interrupted. Sam wasn't quite sure he liked this one. "Can we just get on with it? We do have… business to attend to. Our, uh, deadline nearing and all."

"Yes, alright," Mr. Fell sighed, sending Sam an apologetic look. "We can take it from here, Mr. Winchester." Sam nodded and, a little reluctantly, relinquished the crate, plopping back down on the porch steps as soon as Mr. Fell and his friend went inside.

They came back out though, only five minutes later, and while the man with the sunglasses made a beeline straight for the old car, Mr. Fell stopped to give Sam a large, thick book, the word 'Great' and another one he couldn't figure out printed on the cover. "It's an absolutely brilliant book," the man confided. "Mr. Dickens was a wonderful man." He paused. "This may be a little old for you _now_, I suppose, but in a few years, give it a go. You'll love it, I promise."

Later, when Sam got the chance to ask Uncle Bobby who these men were, Bobby just said something about them being dealers that he borrowed books from sometimes (7).

Many, many years later, when Sam knew more about hunting than he would like, he remembered the two men who pulled up one winter's afternoon in a 1926 Bentley (as he now knew the car had been). He tried to track them down, realizing that to deal with Bobby, they had to know about the supernatural, right?

He never could find them.

But he never got rid of the first edition _Great Expectations._

xXx

PRESENT DAY

This was the last thing Aziraphale had expected to happen when he woke up in the parking lot.

Of course, he hadn't thought he'd wake up at all, really. The last thing he remembered was Hester and Hannah bearing down on him, angel blades flashing and eyes full of righteous fury. His last thought had been something about upsetting Crowley; he couldn't quite remember now.

And so here he was, speaking to a boy he'd only seen once, and twenty years (twenty years!) ago at that.

He could hardly be called a boy any longer.

"Oh, my, Sam Winchester," he said. "It… well, it has been a while, hasn't it?" He smiled. "Do you still have the Dickens?"

Sam smiled back, but there was something off about it, as if it didn't reach his eyes. "Bobby's looking after it for me. Dangerous to take it on hunts, you know?"

"Oh, ah, of course. You… ah, hunt now?"

The man shrugged. The air of nonchalance about him was starting to bother the angel. "Getting out of the life isn't exactly easy."

"I see. And your brother?"

"He got out of the life."

There was something he wasn't saying there, for sure. There were a lot of things he wasn't saying. But maybe now wasn't the time to dwell on that. "Well, I must say, you are actually correct in all your assumptions. I did, ah, die, to be sure. In fact, I only returned a few moments ago, so I'm sure you'll forgive me any confusion."

"Right, well then, Mr. Fell, or… I doubt that's your real name." He let the question hang in the air, unspoken.

"It's Aziraphale, but Mr. Fell is quite alright with me, if you want to-"

"Aziraphale." Sam said it slowly, as if testing it out on his tongue. He gave him a quizzical glance. "I think I've read about you somewhere. Didn't you have some sort of sword thing?"

"Well, actually-"

"No, wait, don't answer that." Aziraphale stopped, raising an eyebrow. "Sorry, it's just, I'm not sure we should be having this conversation in the middle of the street. I was heading down to a diner I saw on the way in the area. You want to come with?"

"It would be my pleasure," he angel replied, falling into step beside the Winchester. Yes, it would be his pleasure indeed. He would stay here and help Sam Winchester with whatever he needed help with, and maybe figure out what exactly was wrong about him.

And then he would take a trip to Soho.

He just hoped there would still be a demon waiting for him there. (8)

xXx

(1)- Though _why_ someone would want to do such a thing, I haven't the slightest idea. Seems rather ridiculous.

(2)- Or the ability to sleep. Admittedly, that one freaked him out a little bit. But mostly, he just got into bed and pretended. That way, he could still imagine that everything was fine.

(3)- Sam took a moment to be insulted at that. His manner of speech? He spoke just fine, thank you very much. It was the British who talked funny!

(4)- He conveniently chose to forget about Castiel at this point. That angel, after all, was very good news, and would not have made his point.

(5)- Don't ask where he got it. It involved five demons, two vampires, some oddly terrified plants, and bench-pressing a cow.

(6)- Everything he ever knew about 'stranger danger' decided to fly out the window. Like the saying goes, if you give the Sam a book…

(7)- Sam also asked if the two were dating each other, because he was seven years old and thought himself very well-informed about the natures of such things. In reply, Bobby just hemmed and hawed and finally told him that he'd never asked.

(8)- Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." ~ E. A. Poe, _The Raven_

**A/N: OMG, I'm sorry this is so late! But I've had finals, and studying, and I'm a bad girl and I started another thing too. It's called Twelve Days of Angstmas, and frankly, I'm just having a lot of fun torturing the characters of Supernatural. But it's a daily update thing leading up to Christmas, which is why I've been spending so much time on it. Go check it out if you're interested- I'd love to see some of you guys over there. I'm planning a GO/SPN crossover chapter, if that helps at all. :)**

**You know, while I was writing this, I kept thinking, what if Aziraphale had finished introducing Crowley, and then when the boys met him, Sam recognized him? How would **_**that**_ **have gone?**

**Once again, thank you for all the reviews! You guys are the best!**

**Oh, and you know that dreaded song Sam got up to this morning? It's not just a coincidence….**


	5. Chapter 5

SUWANEE, GEORGIA, NOVEMBER 2010 A.D.

"So, an apocalypse."

"That's right, yes."

"In 1990."

"Yes."

"Wow."

"Indeed." Aziraphale smiled at the young man and pushed his pancakes around his plate some more. "I'm afraid to say that you and your brother must have been the Plan B."

Sam shook his head. "That's messed up." He stared at him, eyes suddenly very intense. "And you stopped it by working with a demon?" (1)

"That was the general idea, yes. Of course, we ended up not doing very much in the end." He peered at the man over his double stack. "They're not all bad, my boy. Most of them are, yes, but not all of them. The one you were with just happened to be trickier than the rest."

Sam jerked back. "How did you know about Ruby?" he demanded.

Aziraphale smiled again, but sadly this time. "An educated guess. You mustn't blame yourself. Demons are excellent liars."

"So, how do you know your demon hasn't been lying to you?" Sam challenged.

"I've known him for six thousand years," he replied. He didn't feel offended in the slightest. It was only a natural reaction after all. "We've had an Arrangement for the last thousand years or so. Believe me when I say I've had more than enough time to ascertain his sincerity. (2) I'm quite sure about his intentions." He glanced down at his pancakes. "I just hope he's still alright," he murmured. "A lot can change in twenty years."

Sam had the grace to look abashed. "I'm sorry," he stated, and the angel's head shot up. That was the crux of it, right there. He _wasn't_. Oh, he said the words alright, but it was as if it were a reflex and nothing more. There was no feeling behind it, no… emotion.

"It's alright," he told him, choosing his words carefully. "I'm alright. But the question is, are you? How are you feeling?"

"I'm… I'm fine, thanks. Why do you ask?"

"Well, you did go to Hell, and from what you've told me, you were in the same general vicinity as Lucifer himself. That can't have been a pleasant experience."

Sam looked away. "I'm sure it wasn't. But I don't… well, I don't actually remember any of it."

Oh. Oh, dear. Now _that _was alarming. "Oh. That's… er… unexpected."

"What? Is something wrong?"

_Yes._ "Well, whatever got you out… Sam, there is absolutely no reason why you shouldn't be able to remember your time Below. The only thing strong enough to erase your memories of such an ordeal would be an archangel, and from what you've said, Raphael is the only one left. (3) And I sincerely doubt that he was the one to rescue you." He looked at the young man, a pleading expression on his face. "Don't you understand, Sam? Something's wrong."

"I think," Sam began slowly. "I think you may be right." He met his eyes. "I just don't… feel things the way I used to. I'm a great hunter, but it's like… I don't really care, you know?"

"Oh. Oh, no. That's not… That shouldn't be… Oh, no."

"What? What is it?"

Aziraphale studied him gravely. If he was right… This could be bad, Very, very bad. "How about we go back to your motel room?" he suggested, keeping his voice as even as he could manage. "There's… There's something I need to check."

xXx

The angel stared down at the unconscious Winchester with no small measure of regret. He _always_ felt guilty when he put someone to sleep, despite Crowley's reassurances that it was perfectly alright, that there were some people you just couldn't get along with. Maybe that was so, but the young man sprawled on the motel-room bed hadn't done anything. Quite the contrary, in fact; he was a hero, whatever he believed of himself, and that was a fact.

Yet, here they were.

Aziraphale sighed and carefully undid the top buttons of Sam's shirt. _Well, no time like the present then, _he thought. With that, he stuck his hand into the man's chest. Sam's back arched, and even in sleep, he gasped and moaned. Aziraphale tried his best to ignore the pain he was causing, hard though it was, and find what he was looking for.

He just _had_ to be wrong. He had to.

But when he withdrew a moment later, he was horrified, but not particularly surprised by what he found. Or rather, what he didn't find.

It wasn't long afterward that Sam began to stir. Groggily, he sat up and rubbed his head. "What…" His gaze zeroed in on Aziraphale, who stood slightly awkwardly by the bed. "Wait, did you… knock me out?" His tone wasn't really angry though. It bothered Aziraphale to no end, but at least now he knew why.

He shifted. "I do apologize Sam, but what I had to do… well, I thought you'd prefer to be unconscious for it."

Silence, then: "What _did_ you do?"

"I...checked for your soul."

Sam seemed to be frozen. "You… checked my soul," he spluttered. "What for?"

"No, I didn't check your soul, I checked _for_ your soul." Aziraphale bit his lip, finding it increasingly difficult to meet the man's eyes. "There's a difference. And I'm afraid it's not there. Your soul, I mean."

More silence. "What?" Sam finally ventured. His eyes were narrowed. "What do you mean _it's not there?_ How is that…" He trailed off, collecting himself. "Where the hell is it then?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Yes? Yes _what?_" This was through gritted teeth. (4)

"Yes, it's still in Hell." Aziraphale stared down at his feet. "I _am_ terribly sorry, but it's the only explanation. The only place it could be. I'm sure that whoever brought you out tried their very best, but they must not have had the strength to bring your soul out along with your body."

Sam sucked in a breath. "Alright then."

"But I do think that we can- wait, what? Alright?"

"Yeah," he replied, shrugging. "I mean, I'm glad I know what's up now, but… it's not like we can really do anything about it, is there? Unless you're going to storm Hell and Michael and Lucifer. (5) Besides, I'm a fantastic hunter now." He grinned widely, but it was a cold grin, like the expanse of a frozen lake. "Maybe I'm better off without it."

Aziraphale felt his jaw dropping. "But, but _Sam_!" he protested. "A-A soul is what lets you feel and have emotions, and, a-and it's what makes you human and unique in the way that humans are, and you can't just, just throw that away! It's not-"

"Not what?" Sam interrupted. "Not right? Not good? Not _human_? Aziraphale, were you not listening to the part when I chugged down demon blood and started the Apocalypse?"

"Apparently not," the angel murmured. (6) Hesitantly, he moved to sit by Sam on the crappy motel-room bed. This really only left him one option, but that didn't mean he had to like it. "Listen, I don't understand it. But… if you truly don't want it back, I won't force it on you. It's your choice, in the end."

Sam visibly relaxed. "Thanks Azi-" He was cut off by the angel's hand on his forehead. He put more power into it this time; the Winchester would be out for several hours. The corners of his mouth turned down into a frown as he stood up.

"I'm sorry, my boy," he sighed, looking down at his handiwork, "but I really can't let you leave your own soul in Hell. Honestly!"

He then turned and marched purposefully toward the door.

He paused.

He realized something.

He had absolutely no idea what he was doing.

He couldn't exactly go down to the Cage and politely _ask_ for the soul, now could he? That would be a disaster. And it would take far longer than the few hours that Sam would be unconscious. Even with an entire garrison at hi back (not that he had one), it would probably take decades. He didn't _have _that sort of time.

So, what to do, what to do?

_What would Crowley_ _do, _he asked himself in a fit of desperation. Oh, but that wasn't much help either; Crowley would just leave. He simply wouldn't care all that much about the soul of one human, not unless he got something out of it in return.

But…

Aziraphale smacked his forehead. _Of course. _Why hadn't he thought of it before? Crowley wouldn't care enough to do something about it himself, but if he called and asked for help, surely he could think of something! And he really needed to call him anyway, to make sure he was still alright.

_Goodness, I am such an idiot._

It didn't take long to fish Sam's cell phone out of his pocket. It was a bit different from the ones he was used to, true, but he was determined to make it work. Now that the notion was in his head, it wouldn't leave him alone: _call Crowley, call Crowley, call Crowley. _Eventually (7), he managed to punch the all-too familiar number into the screen (8).

_-Ring.-_

_-Ring.-_

_-Ring.-_

_-The number you have called is out of service. We suggest you- _Aziraphale ended the call before the automated voice could say another word, the beginnings of panic swirling in his stomach. _Why _wasn't this number working? There was absolutely no reason for it not to work, unless…

No. Aziraphale refused to consider it. Crowley was absolutely _fine. _He was always _fine. _He must have just gotten a new phone. That was it. He did, after all, like to stay in touch with the modern world. It had been twenty years, and there had apparently been many technological advancements. That was _all. _Just the twenty year time difference.

...Twenty years. He gasped as the thought occurred to him, hitting harder than any physical blow.

...Crowley had thought he was dead for _twenty years_.

And it had been true. He had been dead. But what would that have done to his demon?

Oh, _God. _He'd called him right before the angels had attacked. He'd been _on his way. _What if the angels hadn't left? What if they'd...

Or what if they had? That would mean… Crowley would have found his… body.

What had that _done_ to him?

Aziraphale knew that he was starting to get hysterical, and that he really didn't have time for this, but the thoughts _wouldn't go away_. In fact on top of everything else, he was starting to feel guilty that he hadn't thought of this earlier. All the terrible possibilities now circled around and around in his mind, and he stood there, frozen in place, staring at the message blinking on Sam's phone: CALL FAILED.

So preoccupied with his thoughts was he that as the shadows lengthened around him, and the air chilled, he didn't notice. (9) Not even when the being entered the room did he look up from the phone he was staring at.

It wasn't until the being spoke that he realized there was anyone else in the room at all.

HELLO, AZIRAPHALE.

Aziraphale looked up.

Aziraphale swallowed.

Aziraphale offered a smile in an attempt not to look terrified.

"Why, hello there."

YES. WE'VE ESTABLISHED THAT. The being raised its eyebrows. I HEAR YOU HAVE A PROBLEM.

"Ah, yes," the angel managed faintly. "You can help with that?"

The being made a face that could be taken as a smile. OF COURSE I CAN. I _AM_ DEATH.

xXx

(1)- What he actually wanted to say here was, "And you stopped it by being romantically involved with a demon?" However, even without emotions, he had a little more tact than that. (1.5)

(1.5)- Not that Aziraphale would have minded being asked that. He would have just replied honestly.

(2)- He also had time to ascertain a great many other things, but he didn't say anything about that. He felt as if it would hardly help Sam's opinion of him.

(3)- He felt a slight pang at that. Gabriel had often come by to the bookstore, once he'd discovered that Aziraphale wasn't going to rat him out. While he disapproved of the archangel's lifestyle, he found that Gabriel was good company, _and_ he got along with Crowley, which was a bonus... And now he was gone.

(4)- He was getting more than a little tired of angels and their cryptic speech patterns. First Castiel, now Aziraphale too? Sam was beginning to think that Gabriel was the only angel he'd ever met that hadn't been so damn confusing, and wasn't that just sad?

(5)- Here, Aziraphale opened his mouth to say that he'd actually done it before (Crowley had gotten into trouble), but something in Sam's expression held him back.

(6)- This wasn't actually his fault, as Sam hadn't actually mentioned the demon blood thing. Just that he'd accidentally broken the final seal.

(7)- Eventually meaning after he had accidentally opened up the internet, a game of Solitaire, and something called Candy Crush. What _did_ young people do with their lives these days?

(8)- And after this whole issue was sorted out, he definitely intended to ask Sam _why _exactly the buttons were so very _small_. It seemed like a lot of trouble just to make a call.

(9)- So much for super angel senses. Though he can hardly be blamed- on the rare occasion an angel goes into a mental fit of hysterics, they really go into a mental fit of hysterics, and there's not a whole lot that can distract them from it.

**A/N: Oooh! Look who it is! Well, I'm sure nobody's actually surprised, but hey! I'm just glad he fits into the story!**

**Um, this doesn't count as a cliffhanger, does it? Because, uh, next chapter doesn't even have them in it. Sorry, but, I figure it's Dean and Cas' turn for the spotlight. And **_**possibly **_**some Crowley? If you're lucky…**

**So, last chapter I got a question I figure I should address: Will there be pairings? (stop reading here if you don't want to know) Um… sort of? I ship Crowley/Aziraphale soooo much, it's not even funny. But my problem is, I am absolutely no good at writing romance. So, will it be heavily implied? Yes. Am I going to write romance-specific scenes? Probably not. Same goes for Destiel and Sabriel stuff. But that's not to say that I won't have a bunch of 'chick-flick' scenes (sorry Dean). ;)**

**As usual, thank you so much for all the support, it means a lot! Until next time, ciao!**


	6. Chapter 6

NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA, NOVEMBER 2010 A.D.

Crowley had always liked New Orleans. He wasn't exactly sure why, but he thought it was because of the people. Normally, he wouldn't give a- he wouldn't _care_, but he'd hung around the place after Hurricane Katrina a few years back, and something about their clean-up effort had touched a part of him he hadn't been aware was still there. The pure determination to keep going and keep living had made him feel, for the first time in a long time, that there might just be something worthwhile about humanity after all.

Yes, the demon had always liked New Orleans. So maybe that was why he had insisted on meeting here, in a Well To-Do Restaurant on a Busy Street in the Crescent City.

But the angel was late.

He sighed, taking a long draught of his coffee. (1) He honestly hadn't expected to be in any way otherwise. This particular angel didn't have a very high opinion of him; why would he bother being punctual?

Besides, he _did _have a war to fight. That _might _have something to do with it.

"Crowley."

Crowley startled, sloshing his drink all over the table. "Castiel," he greeted, gritting his teeth. "How nice of you to _warn_ a bloke before you do that."

Castiel tilted his head. "You said that we'd be meeting here." His voice was tired. "I assumed that you'd be ready for me."

"Yes, and you were meant to be here _45 minutes ago!_" Crowley huffed. "I've been waiting for ages!"

The angel's eyes darkened, and Crowley got the distinct feeling that this was the wrong thing to say. "I was in the midst of a battle, _demon_." he growled. (2) "If you honestly expect me to drop everything to come and speak with _you_, you are sorely mistaken." All of this was stated in a tone that said, quite clearly, _Do not overstep your bounds. I am an angel of the Lord, and I _will _smite you should you continue to test me._

Crowley wasn't fazed. He'd dealt with heavenly wrath before (3), and from beings far more intimidating than this Seraph. "Well, doesn't that just give me a warm fuzzy feeling inside." Castiel's glower deepened, and he raised his hands. He prided himself on knowing when to push and when not to push. "Alright, alright," he placated. "I get it, I do. That's why I called you here, actually, to see how things are going."

"Why?" Castiel asked. His eyes narrowed, and Crowley could almost see the cogs turning in his brain, seeking out the trap that _had _to be there. Inwardly, he rolled his eyes. Yes, demons were, in general, untrustworthy, but the angel ought to have figured out by now that when _he_ made a deal, he stuck to it.

"I generally like to keep track of my investments," he replied smoothly. "I'm not sure you understand what a risk I'm taking by backing you here." He leaned over the table, lacing his fingers together. "If you lose, and Raphael frees Lucifer again, I'm going to have three archangels gunning for me for my part in all this."

"So why risk anything at all, Crowley?" Castiel shot back. He too leaned in closer, annoyance written all over his face. "I don't understand what you have to gain from this."

Oh, honestly! Hadn't they been through this already? "I thought we discussed this during our last little chat," he said, allowing exasperation to color his words. "I don't want another apocalypse. Simple as that."

"Yes, you said you didn't want there to be a _third _apocalypse, while to my knowledge, this is only the second attempt in recent history. What exactly did you mean by that?"

Well, of all the times for Castiel to actually start noticing things, this had to be the most inconvenient. "I assure you, this is the third time this has happened, and no, it is not a topic I am interested in discussing." He kept his words short and clipped. "Suffice it to say that I have now been involved all three times and it is _getting on my nerves._" He paused, trying to reign his temper in. That last statement had really only been to try to sate the angel's curiosity a bit; he didn't need to draw more attention to it by getting angry. "Can we get back on track please?" he demanded. "This isn't a social call, and I'm sure you're as eager as I am to get it over with." (4)

"Of course," Castiel acquiesced. "If you want to know about the war, I can oblige." He hesitated for a moment, then continued. "The souls you loaned me the use of are… indeed very helpful. We are outnumbered but Raphael's forces, but are holding our own." He paused again.

"Well, that's good then," Crowley prompted. "Have you figured out yet how you're going to _win_?"

"Not… as of yet, no," the angel admitted. "Even with the souls, I do not have the capability to kill Raphael."

"Hmm. I'll look into that, then."

Castiel shot him a look. "And what would I have to give for assistance of that kind?" he snarled, all his defenses suddenly snapping back up.

Crowley gave him a wry smile. "Just keep doing what you're doing, Castiel," he stated, with the air of one who has seen it all and has simply ceased to care. "You win against that bastard, it'll all be worth it, in the end."

Castiel seemed to have no idea what to say to that. "Are we done here?" he finally ventured.

"As far as I'm concerned." Crowley dismissed him with a wave of his hand, and Castiel stood from his chair, probably about to flap back off to his war. "Ah, wait, no," the demon stopped him, "actually, I wanted to ask you. Have you been in contact with the Winchester lately?" He furrowed his brow as the words came out. Where had _that_ come from?

Castiel mirrored his expression, apparently feeling the same way. "How does that matter?" he inquired in confusion.

"Oh, I was just wondering." Well, he wasn't _really_, but it was as good an excuse as any while he puzzled out his true motivation.

"I… no, I haven't."

Crowley leaned back in his chair. "Maybe you should," he advised. "Might do you good."

Castiel studied him gravely. "I'll keep that in mind," he said, and then he was gone.

Crowley was left to wonder when exactly he'd started to care about whether Casanova and Squirrel had been talking. It was none of his business, really. _So why did he care?_ Because it couldn't just be because the angel reminded him of… someone. He liked to think he wasn't that soft. So that _definitely_ wasn't the reason.

...Definitely.

At that moment, Aziraphale pressed the CALL button on a phone that he didn't really understand, and got nothing but an automated message in return.

xXx

The meeting with Crowley had left Castiel feeling… disoriented to say the least.

First of all, there was the fact that the demon was helping him in the first place. And this was genuine _help_, to be sure! No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't find a single trap. Crowley was being disturbingly _honest_ about wanting to stop another apocalypse.

Which brought him to his second problem: the demon himself. It wasn't obvious, but it was clear that there was more to him than met the eye. All his little slip-ups told a story: his aversion to the word 'arrangement', the fact that he'd been involved in an apocalypse no one seemed to know about, and Castiel still hadn't forgotten that odd hissing incident. Indeed, Crowley had completely shaken all his expectations of what a demon should be. (5)

And he intended to find out why. It was lucky that he'd recently manage to capture Heaven's Record House. Surely, if the demon had been so actively involved with recent events, there would be something about him in the archives.

But that would come later. Currently, he had something far more pressing to deal with: his third problem.

Dean.

Crowley's words had impacted him more than he cared to show. He'd been so determined not to bring Dean back into the life of hunting. He was staying with this Lisa woman; he was happy. And the very fact that _Sam _turned and walked away from him showed that perhaps, Dean was destined to escape from the world of the supernatural.

But he'd spent an entire year Falling. He'd spent time as a human. And the impulses he'd been subjected to weren't going away so easily. Prominent among them was selfishness.

Because he _missed _Dean. A lot.

He didn't understand the emotion, but that didn't mean it wasn't there. And now, Crowley's words had shattered his resolve to stay away.

He briefly tried to argue with himself. What right had he to drag Dean away from his happy, safe life? If his own brother didn't do it, how could he even consider it? He, an angel, who'd known him for two years and been friends with him for far less time than that.

But that's when it hit him. _Friends. _They were _friends. _In his time among humanity, Castiel learned what that word truly meant, learned that Heaven's definition of it was, as Dean would say, 'screwed'.

Dean was his friend, and friends didn't leave friends behind. Even when it was 'for their own good', it turned out to be not such a good idea after all.

With that thought, he was off.

xXx

THE BRAEDEN HOUSEHOLD, NOVEMBER 2010 A.D.

Dean had not expected Cas to show up today.

Correction: he hadn't been expecting Cas to show up _ever._

After all, the last time he'd seen him, the angel had been all… _angelic _again, and he'd left for Heaven with nothing more than a really, really sucky goodbye and no backward glance, and damn it, he'd thought he meant more to the guy than that.

Apparently not.

So he'd just put Cas on the list of Things He Wasn't Going to Think About.

And he'd tried to adjust. He really had.

Thus, here he was, _not _drowning his sorrows in alcohol. Definitely not. No, he was just sitting on the front porch of the house, drinking a beer. Perfectly normal. Even if it was his third this afternoon.

And then, Cas appeared next to him.

Dean's first thought was, _I swear, I'm going to get the guy a bell on a collar._

Dean's second thought was, _Holy shit, it's Cas!_

Dean's third thought was, _Why's he showing up now? Is something wrong? Is he okay? There's no way this is a social call. Where's he _been_?_

In the end, he settled for a simple, "Cas? What the hell?"

"Hello Dean," Cas replied, as usual. And damn, the angel looked the same as ever. Same trench coat, same eyes, same gravelly voice. He honestly hadn't been expecting anything different, but nothing seemed to be _wrong _either. So, if Cas didn't need help, why was he here?

"Wow, Cas, I, uh, I wasn't expecting to see you here," Dean stated, trying for a smile. "How've you been? In, uh, Heaven."

"Well enough." He looked away as the words came out though. So that was the same too, then. He was as crappy a liar as ever. "And you, Dean? Have you been alright?"

"Yeah, I've been…" Dean trailed off. The truth was, he wasn't alright, though he tried to hide it as best he could. He didn't really know what was wrong with him. He loved Lisa, and Ben was just awesome, but something was missing. He was restless.

"You miss Sam," Cas stated, matter-of-factly, as if it summed up his whole situation. And it did.

"Yeah," he breathed. "More than anything."

A look of guilt passed across the angel's face, and Dean's red flags went up. Yup, the guy was hiding something. But what? As he opened his mouth to ask the question, Cas cut him off. "Dean, are you happy here?" he asked.

What kind of a question was that? His first instincts were to brush it off, say _of course I'm happy _and _why do you ask _and _why are you asking now? _But with Cas piercing him with that I-See-Your-Soul Stare of his (6), he found that he couldn't. Because if he thought about it, really thought, was he happy? He _liked_ being here, sure, with Lisa and Ben. But _was he happy? _

No.

Not really.

Happy was on the road, in the Impala, listening to classic rock. Happy was pie in a motel room after ganking the latest monster. Happy was the feeling of saving someone's life, someone who'd go on to live and breathe and maybe, just maybe, make the world a better place.

Happy was being with Sam.

Dean sighed. "No," he muttered. "No, not really." He turned to face Cas more fully. "I just… I don't think I can be."

"I'm sorry," the angel said.

" 'S okay, Cas, there's nothing you can-"

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you."

_What?_

Silence fell over the two for a moment, before Dean found his voice. "Tell me what?" Cas looked at the ground, and Dean leaned in closer. "Cas, tell me what?" he demanded.

The angel's head jerked up, and blue eyes met his. "I'm sorry," Cas repeated, "but I honestly thought that you were happier here, and safer, and who was I to pull you away from that? And since he walked away, he didn't even talk to you, I thought that-"

"_Who walked away?_"

"Sam."

That word was enough to strike Dean dumb. _Sam._

"But I suppose I was wrong? Because… you're not happy? I really wish I'd known-"

Was he still talking? Why was he still talking? Sam was _alive, _nothing else mattered.

Sam was alive, and he hadn't come to find him.

"What?" Dean choked out. "Why didn't he…" He narrowed his eyes, focusing on the here and now with no small effort. "Cas, tell me everything."

And he did. From the retrieval of Sam to the war in Heaven, to the deal with Crowley (7), Cas told Dean everything.

Five minutes later, he'd left a note for Lisa, gathered his meager belongings, and was on the road to Bobby's.

xXx

(1)- Normally, he couldn't stand the stuff, but New Orleans coffee? That was something else!

(2)- And he actually _growled_. It was a sound that could put Growley to shame, but it was just disconcerting coming from Castiel.

(3)- For a good 5,000 years of his life, to be exact, and while he hadn't always survived, he liked to think of himself as well-versed in how to deal with angry angels.

(4)- At this point, he was actually wrong. Cas was not interested in ending this meeting _at all_. He was not nearly the fool that Crowley took him for, and the more time he spent around the demon, the more odd things he noticed about him. This, he decided, was definitely worth looking into. He had the presence of mind not to say any of this out loud, though. If Crowley wanted to underestimate him, that was absolutely fine.

(5)- He had that effect on people.

(6)- Which made him really uncomfortable and he _really_ needed to remember to tell him to stop doing that. Sometime.

(7)- Dean was very displeased to hear about this, but decided they could take it up later.

**A/N: And here it is! Chapter Six! Whooooooooo! I hope my Dean and Cas POVs are okay and everything. **

**Next chapter: In which Aziraphale deals with Death and Sam is confused.**


	7. Chapter 7

SUWANEE, GEORGIA, NOVEMBER 2010 A.D.

The last time Aziraphale had been in the presence of Death, it had been in Lower Tadfield, in the middle of an attempted Apocalypse. The Horseperson (or Biker, whatever he was going by nowadays) had been everything one would expect: tall, imposing, skeletal, and all-in-all terrifying in general.

He looked quite a bit different now. Aziraphale supposed he shouldn't be surprised. It seemed that a lot of changes had been made to the Way of Things since his death.

Honestly, though, his aura was as scary as ever. The gaunt-but-human features and smart black suit did nothing to change that. Aziraphale sucked in a shuddering breath. He had absolutely no idea what to say here, and no idea of what action to take. He could only hope that he wasn't here to claim Sam. It couldn't be the man's time yet, could it?

PEACE, AZIRAPHALE. I AM ONLY HERE TO OFFER MY ASSISTANCE. AFTER ALL- Here, Death paused, casting a disparaging look at the man lying on the bed.- IT DOES SEEM LIKE YOU NEED IT.

What? Of all the things for Death to say, an offer of help had not been what the angel was expecting. "Yes, well, ah, what kind of help exactly are you offering?" he asked cautiously. "I mean…" The angel trailed off, trying to judge whether the look on the Being's face was a good one or a bad one. (1)

IT'S REALLY QUITE SIMPLE, Death stated. I HAVE ACCESS TO THE CAGE, WHERE SAM WINCHESTER'S SOUL RESIDES. MY OFFER IS TO FETCH IT FOR YOU.

Well. That _was_ a generous offer. Too generous, in fact, at least, too generous to be free. "And what would you want in return?" Aziraphale worked up the courage to ask.

Death laughed- a normal sounding chuckle, but the angel shivered in fear regardless. In his experience, it was never good when Death laughed. (2) NOTHING, REALLY, JUST A REASSURANCE. I JUST WANT YOU TO MAKE SURE THAT MR. WINCHESTER GOES BACK TO HIS BROTHER AND SAVES THE WORLD, AS HE'S SO GOOD AT DOING. He smiled wryly. WELL, WHAT HE'S GOOD AT DOING MOST OF THE TIME ANYWAY. WHEN HE'S NOT DOING THE EXACT OPPOSITE.

"I don't understand," Aziraphale replied honestly, ignoring the last comment. "Why would you ask something so trivial?" After all, why would Death retrieve a soul from the deepest pits of Hell in exchange for something that would likely have happened anyway? It didn't make sense.

YOU TRULY ARE UNAWARE OF WHAT'S BEEN HAPPENING, AREN'T YOU? THERE IS A WAR GOING ON, AZIRAPHALE, AND IF THE WRONG SIDE WINS, WE'LL HAVE TO DEAL WITH LUCIFER ALL OVER AGAIN.

"And… you don't want that? No offense, but last time we met, you seemed to be quite on board with the idea of the Apocalypse."

TIMES CHANGE.

"Apparently," Aziraphale muttered.

BESIDES, I HAPPEN TO BE ON GOOD TERMS WITH THE CURRENT KING OF HELL. I'D RATHER TALK TO HIM THAN SOMEONE ELSE. SO WOULD YOU, FOR THAT MATTER.

"Pardon?"

NOTHING. IF WE'RE AGREED, SHALL WE GET ON WITH THINGS?

"Yes, please," the angel happily grasped the opportunity to get back on track. He frankly had absolutely no idea what the fellow was going on about. He certainly hadn't heard of any wars, and as for the King of Hell? He never paid attention to the politics of Below. "So, ah, what do I do?"

Death lifted an eyebrow. WELL, I'M NOT TAKING YOU WITH ME. _YOU _CAN WAIT HERE. I'LL RETURN SHORTLY.

Then, he was gone.

xXx

Aziraphale lost track of time before too long. The seconds passed by in much the same way that minutes and hours did; it all blended together. There was nothing to do, after all. No one to talk to, nothing interesting to even look at. Indeed, the angel was currently sitting on the edge of Sam's bed staring at the wall. (3)

In his state of inactivity, he was ready, this time, for the Presence when it entered the room again.

Aziraphale stood immediately. "Did you get it?" he questioned eagerly.

Death lifted his briefcase. OF COURSE I DID. WHY WOULDN'T I? He glided across the room in a movement rather like that of a wraith (4) and stood next to the bed, the angel hovering nervously nearby.

"So, you've got his soul in there?" he asked. "In your… briefcase?"

ISN'T THAT WHAT I JUST SAID? Death pinned Aziraphale with a Look, and he stopped fidgeting. AZIRAPHALE, DO YOU UNDERSTAND HOW THIS WORKS?

"Uh-"

SAM'S SOUL HAS BEEN IN THE CAGE FOR MONTHS NOW, UNDERGOING UNSPEAKABLE TORMENT.

Aziraphale winced. "Yes, I know, and I was meaning to ask, is there any way you can take that from him?"

NO. AT THIS POINT, THERE IS ONLY ONE WHO CAN, AND HE'S CURRENTLY UNREACHABLE.

"Yes. Right." He stared down at the still-unconscious Winchester. He looked so peaceful now, as if he were truly sleeping, and in that moment, Aziraphale knew with absolute certainty that he didn't want to see what memories of Hell would do to him. "What _can _you do?" he inquired, voice quiet, but firm.

THERE ARE TWO OPTIONS. ONE IS FOR ME TO SIMPLY SUPPRESS THE MEMORIES AS BEST I CAN. BUT HE HAS BEEN IN THERE FOR QUITE A LONG TIME NOW, SO I CANNOT GUARANTEE IT WOULD HAVE MUCH OF ANY EFFECT. IF HE'D BEEN DOWN THERE ANY LONGER, I WOULD BE INCAPABLE OF DOING ANYTHING AT ALL.

The Being fell silent for a moment, and Aziraphale lifted an eyebrow. "And the second option?" he prompted.

THE SECOND OPTION WOULD BE TO PUT UP A WALL IN SAM'S MIND, A BLOCK OF SORTS BETWEEN HIM AND HIS MEMORIES. HE WOULD RECALL NOTHING OF HIS TIME WITH THE ARCHANGELS, BUT IF THAT WALL CAME DOWN… Death trailed off, regarding the angel solemnly.

"It would be worse than it was before," Aziraphale finished, eyes wide. And it would be. Far worse. Enough, perhaps, to drive Sam insane.

But the first option wasn't much better.

It all came down to one thing: would the wall hold? It would for a time, of that he was sure, but everything corrodes with time. And, knowing Sam, even as little as he did, the Winchester would poke and prod at it out of pure curiosity.

Eventually, the wall would fall. And Sam would be driven mad.

This only left one option.

Aziraphale swallowed hard, already hating himself for the choice he was about to make. "Suppress his memories as best you can," he croaked, "but don't put up a wall. It's far too risky for him."

Death inclined his head. SO BE IT. YOU MAY WANT TO CLOSE YOUR EYES.

The angel did so, hearing the lock on the briefcase slide open. The bright flash that followed left bright spots on the backs of his eyelids.

IT IS DONE.

Aziraphale opened his eyes cautiously, trying to blink the spots away, and viewed the man on the bed. "He doesn't look…" He trailed off, looking closer. Usually, he didn't make a point of looking at people's souls (5), but now that the complete absence of Sam's had been filled, it was easy to see the contrast. "Oh. Yes." He glanced at Death. "Thank you."

I'D SAY ANYTIME, BUT I THINK WE BOTH HOPE THAT THIS WON'T HAPPEN AGAIN, Death replied dryly.

"Quite," Aziraphale agreed, shuddering at the thought.

WELL, IF THAT'S ALL, I'LL BE OFF, PLACES TO GO AND DEAD PEOPLE TO SEE AND ALL THAT. I HOPE THE NEXT TIME WE MEET WILL BE UNDER HAPPIER CIRCUMSTANCES.

"Wait," Aziraphale called, a question entering his mind (and simultaneously distracting him from the thought that Death seemed to think they might be meeting again soon). "Do you… I don't suppose you know where Crowley is? He's not… is he…?" His voice faded away as he found that he simply couldn't force out the last word.

Death's reply, though, was enough to make him burst into tears.

CROWLEY IS ALIVE.

The angel's eyes widened. Alive. Crowley was _alive. _In that instant, the panic he'd been trying very hard not to think about diminished considerably. It was quite interesting, he reflected, how three words could make someone's day so much better. He lost no time in asking his next question. "Where is he?"

THAT, AZIRAPHALE, IS FOR ME TO KNOW, AND YOU TO FIND OUT. BUT BELIEVE ME WHEN I SAY THAT IT'S A _HELL_ OF AN INTERESTING STORY.

And before the angel could protest, or question that last, enigmatic statement, Death had left the building.

xXx

_Fire._

_Burning._

_Pain._

_Laughter._

_Blood- lots of it._

_He called Dean's name; why didn't he come?_

_Lucifer just laughed some more._

_Michael did nothing to stop it- stood by and watched._

_Where was Adam?_

_Where was _Dean_?_

_And then the pain started all over again, and all Sam could do was-_

Sam woke up with a scream, sitting bolt upright in bed. He looked around the room wildly, before regaining his bearings. He was fine. This wasn't Hell, this was his motel room. (6) He hadn't been in Hell for months… but then why did it seem like it had just been yesterday?

The memories of the past few hours rushed in on him, and he gasped. _Oh, God. _He'd been missing his _soul! _He'd just been walking around with _no friggin' soul! _He fought to keep the bile down at the thought of some of the actions he'd taken.

"Sam? Are you alright?" Sam's eyes shot to the source of the voice, and sure enough, there was Mr. Fell- _Aziraphale, _he reminded himself- perched on the edge of the bed and appearing extremely worried.

"Fine," he croaked out, but wasn't surprised when he received a skeptical glance. "Really," he pressed. "I-" He cut himself off, recalling what he'd said mere moments before it had all gone black. He'd actually told him he'd be better off without his soul! "Oh, God," he rasped. "I am so sorry."

Aziraphale waved a hand, brushing his apology aside. "There's nothing to feel sorry about, my boy. You weren't yourself." He paused, peering at him over the tops of his spectacles. (7) "You do feel better, right?" he inquired. "You do feel-"

"LIke I have a moral compass again?" Sam laughed, not even trying to hold back the bitterness and self-loathing in his voice. "Yeah, sure I feel great. You know, I'm in this town for a werewolf hunt, and I was going to finish it up tonight. Know what I was going to do?" He laughed again. "_I was going to use her cousin as bait._"

"I don't think that-"

"I was going to use an innocent woman as bait, and I didn't think there was anything wrong with that," he ploughed on. "Maybe you should have just-"

Aziraphale raised a hand, and the hunter stopped speaking. "I've only known you for a few hours, so I hope you don't take this the wrong way, but you, Sam Winchester," he said, matter-of-factly, "are an idiot. I would never have killed you, or whatever it was you were about to say, because it wasn't you. Understand?" Sam opened his mouth, but Aziraphale cut him off once again. "I can understand that you have low self-esteem, and I'm actually not all that surprised about it, based on what you told me in the diner this morning, but you need to realize that the part of you that was up here on Earth was your body and your brain, not your heart, not your soul, and not _who you are. _The sooner you accept that, the sooner we can all move on." The look on his face must have been something like a deer in the headlights, because Aziraphale's expression softened, and his next words were far more gentle. "You are not to blame, Sam."

Well. Alright then. _He, _Sam reflected absent-mindedly, _would make a great motivational speaker. _Because as much as he didn't want to admit it, he felt a little better. It felt good to have the apparent forgiveness of an angel. (8)

"So how did you get me up here, anyway?" he asked, deciding to change the subject. "Unless you actually did storm the Cage, in which case I take back what I said earlier."

Aziraphale shifted a bit, and the bed creaked. "Well," he began, "no, not really. I, ah, made a smallish deal. With Death."

"A deal," he repeated. "With Death." He blinked. "What… How did you…"

"Oh, it was nothing bad or anything," Aziraphale hurried to reassure him. "He just wanted to make sure you reunited with your brother. Something about saving the world?"

"Oh," Sam said, suddenly remembering something else. "Oh, damn. I walked away." He stared at the angel. "I was right there, at Lisa's, and I turned and walked away. He doesn't even know I'm alive. Crap."

"Well, that's easily fixable, isn't it? You can just go find him again."

"Yeah, well…" Sam hesitated. Somehow, that didn't feel right. "Or we could go to Bobby's first. Regroup and stuff."

"...If you think that's best. Oh, wait, what about that, ah, werewolf you were talking about?"

Sam winced. "I'll call in another hunter to take care of it." Because suddenly, he wanted to be on the road again, as far away from here as he could get. "Let's just get on the road." He swung out of bed and began to pack up his things.

"I'm coming too?"

Sam paused in his actions to look at him. "If you want to, that is." He grinned. "You got my soul out of Hell. I think that earns you a place on the team."

Aziraphale considered this for a moment, then nodded. "I would be glad to join you, Sam." He seemed to perk up. "Oh, by the way, I don't suppose you've ever encountered a demon like… ah… well, he's got golden eyes, like a snake, and he has a very nice car. Hisses from time to time."

"Your demon?" Sam asked, pulling open the door. (9)

Aziraphale followed him out to the parking lot. "Yes, it's just that Death told me that he was still alive, and, well…"

Sam shook his head, clambering into his car. Golden eyes? They'd never encountered any demons like that besides Azazel, and his eyes hadn't been like a snake. "No, I'm sorry."

The angel wilted slightly, but stepped into the passenger seat. "Oh, well, probably a good thing you haven't met him then," he sighed. "I doubt you'd get along."

Sam had to smile at that. No, he probably wouldn't. "So, to Bobby's then," he stated, turning the key in the ignition. Immediately, the radio began to play.

_I never meant to be so bad to you _

_One thing I said that I would never do _

_A look from you and I-_

He flinched violently. The radio was off in a matter of seconds. Sensing the look directed his way, he tried to explain. "That song's got some… negative connotations for me, is all. And now it seems to be following me." He laughed uneasily. "That's the second time today."

He kept his eyes on the road as they pulled out of the parking lot, and thus did not see Aziraphale's thoughtful glance.

xXx

(1)- It was a look of amusement, actually, but Aziraphale can perhaps be forgiven his ignorance. He wasn't all that accustomed to Death having facial expressions at all.

(2)- And yes, he did have experience regarding this. He'd met Death on several occasions before the Apocalypse, and well... suffice it to say that not all of said meetings were pleasant.

(3)- Which, under the close scrutiny of the Holy Being, was making a valiant effort not to be as moldy as usual. It was not entirely successful, but it's the thought that counts, right?

(4)- Though, something about the action didn't quite look right. Perhaps it was the suit, Aziraphale supposed. It _is_ much harder to glide in a suit than in a menacing black cloak, after all.

(5)- He'd always thought it was rather invasive.

(6)- Though, an argument could be made that the two weren't actually all that different.

(7)- And Sam really didn't understand why people did that. If you looked over your glasses and not through them, wouldn't that just make your vision worse?

(8)- One that truly seemed to be on the side of good, anyway. Sam really wished that a good angel wasn't such a surprising thought.

(9)- Because packing had conveniently only taken about two minutes. All of Sam's belongings had decided that they would outdo the wall in attempting to please Aziraphale, (9.5) and thus made their best efforts to get them get out of the motel room (and away from the competition).

(9.5)- He had that effect on inanimate objects.

**A/N: ...Sorry? I know, the wait was way too long on this one, but can you please not try to kill me? Saturday is my favorite day of the week, and I don't want to spoil it. And I really am sorry, it's just, this chapter wouldn't come out right. At all. I'm **_**still **_**not sure about it, but I figured if I waited any longer, I'd have to move to Antarctica to avoid you guys.**

**...Also, don't kill me for the fact that Aziraphale remains clueless in regards to Crowley. I mean, I had Death drop a few hints, but Az just wouldn't cooperate. I think Death ships A/C though. Huh.**

**...Also... don't yell at me because Sam, in all his angst, decided to shove Cas out of this chapter. (next one, I promise!)**

**Aaaaaaanyway, Next Chapter: In which the brothers have a heartfelt reunion, Dean tells everyone what Cas told him about the war, and Castiel himself makes deductions, my dear Watson.**


	8. Chapter 8

SIOUX FALLS, SOUTH DAKOTA, NOVEMBER 2010 A.D.

Driving always helped to calm Dean down. It didn't matter what the problem was; there was something about the open road that made him feel at peace. (1)

Somehow, though, this brand of therapy didn't seem to be working as well this time. Maybe there _were _some issues the Impala couldn't fix after all. Such as this one: Bobby had known. Dean gritted his teeth and stared at the steering wheel. Bobby had _known. _Bobby had known that Sam was alive, and he hadn't told him.

Oh, the old man could make all the excuses he wanted to ("We just wanted you to be safe… you got out of the life…"), but Dean couldn't possibly care less. Who cared if he'd gotten out of hunting? Who cared if he was living the apple pie life? He sure as hell didn't! Sure, Lisa and Ben were great, but they weren't home. Home was the feeling of saving someone's life and ganking the latest monster. Home was a six hour night's sleep at the end of a long drive.

Home was his brother.

And Sam was alive, he was back, and _he hadn't told him._

So, here he was, out on a drive to clear his head. And it wasn't working.

The loud blast of a horn jerked Dean out of his revery. Startled, he looked up from the steering wheel and swore, spinning the wheel to the right. Somehow, while he was thinking, he'd drifted over to the other lane, and another car was now headed straight at him!

They missed a collision by mere inches.

Dean tightened his grip on the wheel as he slowed to a stop, breathing heavily. _Idiot, _he berated himself. _Eyes on the road. _The admonishment sounded suspiciously like Sam. He winced, shaking his head and stepping out of the car. His mental health problems could wait: he had other things to deal with. Such as why someone was headed toward Bobby's with a car that sure didn't look as if it needed repairs. (2) "Hey," he called. "Sorry 'bout that. You okay?"

The passenger-side door opened, and a man stumbled out. He was blonde and a little on the short side, with glasses and a seemingly god-awful sense of style. "Oh, yes," he replied, putting a hand on the roof of the car, "we're fine." He smiled at him in a disconcertingly sincere way. "That _was _a close one though, wasn't it? Good thing we didn't collide. That would have been bad." His blue eyes drifted (and why did those eyes seem so familiar?) over to the Impala, and he let out a low whistle. "My, that is a beautiful piece of craftsmanship. Absolutely stunning. '67 is it? That was a fine year."

This guy was in Dean's good books already. _Smart,_ Dean decided. _Guy's British, smart, and most likely gay. Sure doesn't seem like a hunter at any rate._

The man's next statement dispelled that assessment.

"So, would you be Dean then?" he asked, beaming.

Dean frowned, immediately on guard. "Who's asking?" he demanded.

That's when the driver's-side door opened, and the second man stepped out. Dean's vision tunneled.

_Sam._

_It's Sam_

_Samsamsamsamsamsamsamsamsamsam._

Dean was barely aware of his movement as he walked forward a few steps, cutting the distance between them in half.

Sam. There he was, right in front of him, looking, for the life of him, like a guilty puppy. (3)

_He's alive. He's alive and he's right here. Sammy._

Dean punched him in the nose. (4)

"Ow!" Sam yelped, backing up against his hideous rental car. "Dude! Can't just say hello?"

"You've been alive," he accused, and damn it, his voice was _not _shaking! "You've been back for five friggin' months, Sam, and you didn't tell me, Bobby didn't tell me, and hell, _Cas _didn't tell me until friggin' yesterday. Why the _hell _did no one tell me?"

The guilt increased. "You were ha-"

"If you're about to say 'you were happy', you can take it and shove it up your ass," he threatened. "I was not _happy. _You friggin' _died._ You were in _Hell _with the friggin' archangels. What about that would make me _happy?_"

"I thought-"

"No, you didn't think. If you had, even for one second, you would have realized that I would rather have you alive than dead." He broke off, trying to wrap his emotions under control. "Damn it, Sam," he finally continued. "Why'd you walk away?"

Sam opened his mouth to reply, but at that point, the other guy interceded. "If I may," he began, and Sam turned to glare at him. The man stared back, uncowed. "Come now, Sam, he needs to know."

_Needs to know? Needs to know what? _If that didn't sound ominous, he didn't know what did.

Sam stayed silent, which the guy apparently took as permission to keep going. "Anyway, for the past few months, Sam hasn't exactly been… himself."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"Dean interrupted.

"I'm getting to that, if you don't mind," the man stated, sending a deathly glare at him. (5) "Now then, as it turns out, whoever brought Sam back didn't… well… they didn't have enough power to do it properly. I'm sure they tried their hardest, but… well… they brought him back with a piece missing."

He was almost afraid to ask, but he did anyway. "What piece?" Adding silently, _Damn it, Cas, what did you do?_

The man winced. "His soul."

There was silence for a moment as Dean processed that information. He glanced at Sam's face to see his expression, but he was staring at the ground, the picture of dejection. So it was true then. "Damn it, Cas," he muttered.

Sam's head shot back up. "So it _was _Cas?" he asked, eyes wide.

"Yeah," Dean grimaced.

"I'm sure this, ah, Cas didn't mean to," the man repeated. "But it does, of course, mean that the Sam that was here for the past five months was just his body and not actually him, so he is _not to blame _for _any _of the actions he might have taken." The man stared hard at Sam as he said this. There was a story there, Dean could tell, but now probably wasn't the best time to ask.

There was silence for another moment, a moment in which Sam looked so miserable that Dean just couldn't stand it any longer. "Sam," he started, but that was all he said before he pulled his younger brother into a hug. "God, I missed you, Sammy," he murmured.

"Missed you too, Dean."

The hug lasted a full five seconds before Dean decided he needed to preserve his manliness and pulled away. Sam was smiling now, and he felt a warm glow at the accomplishment. The feeling faded somewhat, though, when he sensed another pair of eyes on him. Scowling slightly, he turned to face the other guy. "And where to you fall into all this?" he demanded. But it wasn't the man who answered.

"He's an angel, Dean," Sam told him quietly, and Dean instantly realized who the guy's eyes reminded him of. "His name is Aziraphale, and he got my soul back for me."

Any objections Dean might have had to his presence died in his throat. _Well. Okay then._

"He's also been to Bobby's, once," his brother pressed. "January 1990. You had the flu, remember?"

He did remember, sort of. The memories were mostly just about feeling absolutely terrible, but he could recall, at one point, hearing voices downstairs. Voices that hadn't belonged to Sam or Bobby.

"Uh, okay."

"Really?" Sam said skeptically. "You're okay with him being here?"

Dean shrugged. "He give you that copy of _Great Expectations _you were so over the moon about?"

Sam nodded.

He turned to face the man -Aziraphale- who was watching the proceedings with interest. "You save my brother, you appreciate Baby, you're alright by me." Dean paused, considering his next statement. "Betray us, and I kill you myself."

Aziraphale nodded eagerly. "Understood." He glanced at the Impala, rubbing his hands together. "So, should we, ah, get to Robert's then?" he inquired politely. "That _was _our original destination after all. And it's a bit… bracing out here."

Dean lifted an eyebrow. Honestly, he hadn't even noticed the cold. Little details like that seemed to slip away somehow when there were more important things to focus on. More important people. "Sounds like a good plan," he agreed, a pit forming in the center of his stomach even as the words came out. _They have no idea what's going on up there, _he realized. _Damn it. _He sighed heavily. "I've got a few things to tell you on the way there, though. And you're not going to like it."

And so, the three piled into the Impala and drove off in the direction of Bobby's house, Dean driving, Sam in the passenger seat, and Aziraphale in the back. Just as it was meant to be.

The rental car was left in the middle of the road, forgotten. (6)

xXx

THE RECORD HOUSE OF HEAVEN, NOVEMBER 2010 A.D.

Crowley had covered his tracks very well, Castiel had to admit that. Not well enough, to be sure, but well enough that no one would find out the truth if they didn't go looking, or didn't have the resources.

Unfortunately for the demon, Castiel had gone looking. And he most certainly had the resources. Heaven's Record House contained extensive information on nigh on everything in the universe, including the histories of Earth's more… colorful inhabitants.

The file on Crowley hadn't been hard to find. In fact, it looked as if it had been read quite recently, which wasn't surprising, considering that, until a few weeks ago, the Record House had been held by Raphael's forces, and Raphael was nothing if not thorough in his intelligence gathering. Castiel imagined that the archangel had been trying to figure out whether or not he could get Crowley on his side. The King of Hell would be a useful asset.

The file itself, however, had been anything but useful. Oh, it had plenty of information, but none of it was what Castiel wanted. It seemed that Crowley was a perfectly normal, if ambitious demon. As a human, he'd been a tailor, and had sold his soul to gain the attention of the woman he desired. He hadn't been a _horrible_ man, but he certainly hadn't been a nice one, either, and once the hounds had gotten him, nobody had missed him all that much. He didn't last long on the rack before giving in, and it didn't take long for him to become a demon after that. He'd gone into the crossroads division, but he'd only really become noticeable in late 1990 or so, when he began to rise to prominence. He became King of the Crossroads by '93.

To sum up, though Crowley wasn't exactly an average demon, he didn't come from remarkable stock, either.

But Castiel had refused to give up. There was something off about Crowley, he just knew it! The hissing in particular stuck in his mind. So, on a whim, he'd looked up major events of 1990, just to see if there was anything there to find.

And was there ever!

He'd almost overlooked it. The file had been pushed back behind several others and looked rather like it hadn't been touched since the day it was made. Nonetheless, he'd picked it up and thumbed through it, slowing down once he realized exactly what he held in his hands.

Here it was. The information he'd been looking for.

Apparently, the Apocalypse last year hadn't been the first attempt.

Castiel actually had to sit down as he read through everything, which frustrated him to no end, because he was an angel, and angels weren't supposed to have emotional reactions like this. But he couldn't help it. Did Heaven never learn? If the Apocalypse was meant to happen, it _would have happened already! _And it seemed that this first time, the event had been averted almost easily. The account wasn't particularly detailed (7), but it was quite clear in saying who'd been involved. According to this, the Antichrist, one Adam Young, had simply decided that he'd rather not go through with the whole thing. And an angel named Aziraphale, a demon named Crowley, and a small band of humans had stood with him. (8)

Castiel's eyes widened as he read Aziraphale's name. He'd known this angel, and though they hadn't been particularly close, he liked to think that they'd been friends. Of course, once the Principality had been reassigned to Earth, Castiel hadn't been able to see him anymore, but he still held affection for the former guard of Eden.

The execution order infuriated him. It was all he could do to not throw something at the wall. (9)

With difficulty, he tore his eyes away from that particular sheet of paper and sifted through the rest, searching for something on the Crowley mentioned here. When he found it, though, it wasn't exactly what he was expecting. His eyes flew across the page, seeking something, _anything_, that would link this demon with the one he knew. Something that would prove that his hunch had been right.

The words flashed through his mind:

_Serpent of Eden…_

_Original sin…_

_Tempter…_

_First Demon_

_Arrangement…_

When he came to that one, he slowed and went back, rereading the phrase.

_Upon further investigation, it would appear that the demon made some sort of Arrangement with the angel Aziraphale in which they co-existed in relative peace, and they may even have been romantically involved._

Well, that explained Crowley's aversion to the word, if Aziraphale had been killed. Castiel frowned and continued to read.

_After Aziraphale was eliminated in September of 1990, the Serpent disappeared, despite our best efforts to locate him. It is our belief that Hell took care of him._

The file ended there, and Castiel closed it with a snap. Late 1990. Well, that settled it, didn't it? Knowing Crowley, he'd probably had an alternate identity set up for a while before the events of the Apocalypse. After Aziraphale's death, he'd put it to good use, disappearing so far into the bureaucracy of Hell that no one could find him, not even Heaven.

The Crowleys were the same.

Castiel stood, carefully placing the file back where he found it. So, he had the information he wanted. But what to do with it now?

_That, _he thought, grimly, _is going to have to wait. _For now, he was needed on the battlefield. (10)

xXx

(1)- Except, you know, when he was being chased by possessed trucks. That was the exact opposite of peaceful.

(2)- Even if it _was_ an ugly piece of work.

(3)- Perhaps not the most apt comparison, as the majority of puppies have 'guilt' set as their default setting. It's why cats can get away with almost anything.

(4)- He heard the other guy go, "Oh, dear," in the background, but made an executive decision to ignore him.

(5)- Unnoticed by anyone, some grass by the side of the road straightened. The fact is, plants everywhere are incredibly lucky that Aziraphale has a kind, gentle heart. If he didn't, and he decided to take up gardening (5.5), he'd be worse than Crowley.

(5.5)- Not that he would. He's fairly certain that he's terrible at it. (And there's a long story there involving nuns, Nazis, and potted hydrangeas.)

(6)- About ten minutes later, a blue-box shaped spaceship landed beside the car, and a bow-tie wearing alien jumped out and stole all the engine parts, muttering about a pond and a Roman and their stupid vehicle the entire time. After he'd dismantled the motor, the alien then hopped back in his ship, and the box disappeared.

The car went on to blow up.

(7)- Which was a bit weird. Honestly, it almost seemed like Heaven had wanted to forget the whole thing happened.

(8)- And then, apparently, Heaven had decided to send down a Metatron impersonator to deal with them all. The idea, really, was laughable. The original Metatron wouldn't have been able to do anything, so why had they thought that a fake one would make a difference?

(9)- Heaven's Record House was located in someone's heaven after all, and she probably wouldn't take very kindly to it being damaged by a Seraph's temper tantrum.

(10)- The word 'field' being used in a very loose way. Heaven isn't all that much like a field, really.

**A/N: So, things are looking up, right? The brothers are back in business, and Castiel knows who Crowley is (and that's going to be a weird conversation, let me tell you). Of course, things are going to go horribly wrong in just a few chapters, so, enjoy the bliss while you can.**

**Next Chapter: In which solutions to Cas' Heavenly Problem are discussed, Aziraphale picks the worst possible time to step outside, and Cas decides to also ship A/C.**

**Or: In which Aziraphale and Crowley come face to face.**

**Yes, you read that right.**

**Too bad you have to wait a week for it.**

**(runs and hides with the penguins)**


	9. Chapter 9

SIOUX FALLS, SOUTH DAKOTA, NOVEMBER 2010 A.D.

"So, what the hell are we gonna do about it then?" Bobby asked, raising his eyebrows at the group.

They were a motley assortment, Sam observed, sitting in Bobby's living room. Dean sat by his side on the couch, as if he was going to disappear if they moved too far apart. Bobby leaned forward over his desk, apparently waiting for an answer to his question. And Aziraphale sat cross-legged on the floor, seemingly engrossed in some ancient text that no one had ever managed to decipher. (1)

"I honestly haven't the slightest," the angel finally stated, with an air of hopelessness. Indeed, when he glanced up, his blue eyes were dull. "I'm afraid I never really had to think about what could defeat an archangel. I haven't had contact with any of them in years, besides Gabriel, and he was never so annoying that we plotted to kill him." He turned his attention back to his book. "I'm just having a hard time imagining that Raphael would do such a thing in the first place." He sighed. "I mean, I knew that Heaven wanted the Apocalypse, but enough to start a civil war?"

Sam's question of, "You knew Gabriel?", and Bobby's of, "Who's _we_?", was overridden by Dean's, "Yeah, well, welcome to our world."

Aziraphale laughed, the sound hollow. "I don't like your world very much."

Sam winced in sympathy. _It must be hard on him, _he thought, _to be gone for two decades and then be put back into a world that's so..._different _from the one he left. _In a way, he could relate; though he certainly hadn't been dead for twenty years, he'd still come back to a changed world. The civil war in Heaven proved that. And speaking of..."Why don't we call Cas?" he voiced. "I mean, I'm sure he didn't give you every last detail, Dean, and it's hard to form a strategy if you don't know the enemy."

"We can try. I got the impression that he's pretty busy, but…" Dean trailed off, but Bobby gestured for him to continue, and even Aziraphale set aside his book. He frowned and raised his eyes skyward. "Fine, okay, I pray to Cas to get his angelic ass down here (2), because we need him and… yeah, guys, I really don't think he's-"

"Hello Dean."

Sam nearly jumped out of his seat at the angel's sudden entrance into the middle of the room. Beside him, his brother had the same reaction. "Geez, Cas!"

Cas cocked his head. "Did you not call for me?" Those piercing blue eyes turned toward Sam. "Oh, hello Sam," he greeted, sounding vaguely surprised.

Sam sighed. "Hey Cas," he stated. "How've-" That was as far as he got before he was interrupted.

"Castiel!" Aziraphale exclaimed, rising to his feet and sounding pleased as punch, which was, all things considered, a very nice turnabout from only a moment before. (3) "My goodness! I thought that maybe, when they were saying _Cas, _but… Well, it _has _been a long time, hasn't it?" To the surprise of everyone present (4), he neatly stepped over his book and wrapped Cas in a tight hug.

Also to the surprise of everyone present (5), the hug was instantly returned.

However, when the two finally stepped back from each other, Aziraphale was instantly subjected to Cas' I-Am-Confused™ look. "Aziraphale," he stated, his brow furrowed. "It _is _good to see you, but… I learned recently that you had been killed?"

Aziraphale nodded. "Well, yes, I was, nasty business, that, but apparently, Father thinks that I've still got work to do. Or something like that, anyway. We didn't really talk."

"I… well." Cas seemed to have no idea how to respond to that. Sam didn't either.

"I know. He's being even more cryptic than usual, isn't he?" Aziraphale beamed. "Really, though, it is absolutely brilliant to see you again. Six thousand years is just far too long."

Sam cleared his throat. "So, you two know each other then?"

"Oh, yes, I've actually known Castiel since he was a fledgling, and Gabriel took him to visit the Garden, and he-"

"Please, let's not go into that," Cas interrupted, looking for all the world like an embarrassed teenager. (6) He turned his attention to Dean. "I assume there is, in fact, a reason that you called for me? If we could discuss it, I do have an army to manage, and another battle seems to be looming."

"Right," Dean started. "We're trying to see if there was anything that we've got that we could use against your mutant turtle problem."

Cas furrowed his brow. "I don't have a problem involving mutated repti-"

"He means Raphael," Sam cut in. "And we want to know what we can do to help."

The blue-eyed angel shifted in place, looking uncomfortable. "There really isn't anything," he admitted, hands spread wide in defeat. "I… there's really no weapon that could permanently kill Raphael, except for an archangel blade, and obviously, there are none available."

"Well, what about Raphael's?" Bobby suggested. "Can't you try to get his offa him?"

It was Aziraphale who answered this one. "To attempt such a thing would be suicide," he informed the group gravely. "Raphael would crush him before he got the opportunity. Archangels guard their blades zealously."

"Exactly," Cas agreed. "And, obviously, we can't get to Michael's or Lucifer's, and Lucifer likely took Gabriel's blade with him, rather than leave it for someone else to claim."

Sam noted that at this, Aziraphale got a thoughtful look on his face. He decided not to comment, though. Whatever it was, the angel would share it in due time.

"So, what are you saying, we should just sit here?" Dean exploded. "Dude, there is no way that we're just leaving you out to dry!"

Cas stared at the man hesitantly. "Well, if you'd be willing, I believe that Cr-"

"No! No way! We are not bringing that slimy son of a bitch into this! It's bad enough that you made a deal with him, Cas, but we're not going to talk to him or summon him or whatever it is you want to do!"

Cas didn't take kindly to this.

As the pair stared each other down, Aziraphale turned to Sam. "Who are they talking about?" he murmured.

"You know how, on the way here, Dean said that Cas told him that he'd made a demon deal? With the King of Hell?" Sam trailed off, gesturing at the two. Aziraphale's eyes widened, and the expression on his face was funny enough that Sam couldn't help but chuckle. "Yeah. This is our life."

"I really don't think I like your life."

"I really don't like it either."

"Dean!" Cas finally broke the staring contest, and everyone in the room froze. Sam raised his eyebrows. Cas almost never lost his temper with his brother, the last memorable time being when Dean had tried to go and say yes to Michael. "I realize that you neither trust nor like him. _I don't either_. But thus far, he has been nothing but helpful to me, and there have been _no traps. _Believe me, I have been looking, and there are none!" Seeing the expression on Dean's face (7), he backed off a bit, folding his arms over his chest in a decidedly human gesture. "Besides, I recently discovered some information that I need to discuss with him." And was it Sam's imagination, or did his eyes slide over to Aziraphale as he said this?

"Fine," Dean gritted out. "But if he tries _anything…_" He left the threat hanging. After all, there was no need to continue. They all knew what would happen to the demon if he made a wrong move.

Aziraphale cleared his throat, scuffing his feet on the floor. "Pardon, but, ah… well, would you mind terribly if I waited outside for this bit?" he inquired. "It's just… ah, I'm not particularly eager to meet the King of Hell."

"Sure, go ahead. It's probably not a good idea for him to know about you anyway," Sam agreed. Though, as he said this, and as Aziraphale left to sit on the front porch, he observed that Cas seemed to want to object. Sam frowned. Why would he want Aziraphale to be anywhere near Crowley?

_What does he know that we don't?_

xXx

Devil's Traps. Crowley hated them.

Not, of course, that he couldn't escape from one if he _really _wanted to. It would take time, and more effort than was worth it, but as a Fallen Angel (8), only a circle of Holy Fire could properly contain him.

But still. The bloody things were annoying. Especially when he was summoned into one.

Especially when it was this fellow doing the summoning.

"Bobby Singer," he greeted, as cordially as he could force himself to be. "What a pleasant surprise. Pining for my company are we?" He lifted an eyebrow, taking in the others present: Moose, Squirrel, and The-Little-Angel-That-Could. None of them looked particularly happy, not that this was a shock. "This isn't about your soul, is it?" he asked. "Because I gave that back months ago."

"We need to know how to kill an archangel," Dean stated, blunt as ever.

So that was the way the wind was blowing, was it?

Crowley sighed. "Why am I not surprised? Look, Castiel," he said, focusing on the angel, "I know we said I'd look into it, but that was _yesterday! _These things take time!"

"I realize that," Castiel stated quietly. "That's not what I want to talk to you about."

Three pairs of eyebrows went up, and the demon guessed that he hadn't told his pet hunters that juicy little tidbit. "Oh, is that so," he drawled. "Well, do share. I really don't have all day. Kingdom to run and all that."

Castiel narrowed his eyes and stepped forward a bit. "You're going to want to listen to this," he promised.

"All ears, sweetheart."

"Crawly."

He could see the three humans exchanging bewildered looks in the background, but that didn't matter. The name that Castiel had just uttered echoed in his brain. _Crawly. _No one had called him that in… "How," he began, cursing the slight shake in his voice, "the _hell _do you know about that?" And how _much _did he know? If it was only the name, maybe his cover was still safe. Maybe there was something salvageable about the situation. Maybe…

"It wasn't very difficult," Castiel replied, and bless it all if the angel didn't look _smug!_ He hadn't even known that angels were _capable _of feeling smugness! "You dropped more than enough hints, even if you didn't realize you were doing it." The angel cocked his head. "You _hissed _at me," he stated, as if that explained everything.

Well. There went his hopes that he hadn't noticed it.

"You hissed at me," Castiel continued, "you don't like the word 'arrangement', and then there was that other Apocalypse you mentioned." In the background, an odd expression dawned on Sam's face, his mouth making a small 'o'. What was that about? "In fact, the fact that you wanted so vehemently to stop the Apocalypse at all was a bit odd. Enough to get me curious, anyway." He paused, as if waiting for Crowley to say something, but all the demon could do was stare. Bloody Manchester, this was not good. "So, I visited Heaven's Record House. It took a while, but I found what I was looking for."

In that moment, the demon revised every single opinion he'd ever had about Castiel. He was a cruel, vindictive _bastard._

It was Squirrel who broke the silence. "Cas, what the hell are you talking about?" Moose shushed him with a quiet, "Dean."

Castiel turned halfway to regard the three humans, his enjoyment of moment written all over his face. "Dean, Sam, Bobby, may I introduce Anthony Crowley, the Serpent of Eden, and Inventor of Original Sin." Crowley's eyes widened. He really should stop him, he knew, but somehow, he couldn't get a single sound to come out. "An Angel who did not so much Fall as Saunter Vaguely Downwards."

There was silence after that revelation, in which the demon fished for words that weren't there, the humans all gawked, and the angel looked entirely too pleased with himself.

The silence lasted a good minute, until the demon finally regained his voice. "You bastard," he breathed, ignoring the way the lights were suddenly flickering. "You absolute _bastard. _Do you have any idea how bloody _long _it took to build up an identity? And now you've gone and… you've… do you have any _idea _what you've-" At that point, the closest light bulb exploded, and a large crack rent itself in the paint on the ceiling. Crowley stood there, breathing heavily and trying to get a handle on himself. It would not do to show weakness, or fear, or any emotion at all, really. Not here. Hunters, just like realtors, were sharks.

Castiel regarded him coolly. "May I continue?" he inquired. Crowley gaped at him.

"Why the hell not?" he finally managed. "It's not as if it's possible to do any more damage than you've already done."

"After you helped stop the Apocalypse in 1990 (9), there were assassination attempts made on both you and your close… friend. The one on your friend was successful, and so you went into hiding, burying yourself so deep that no one would find you. Not Heaven, not Hell, not even those you still wouldn't mind being around. And here you are, King of Hell, in a perfect position to do whatever you want to." He cocked his head. "Did I get all of that right?"

Crowley stared at him. "You know damn well that you did," he forced out, teeth clenched together. "You know _damn well_." And how dare he? How _dare _he stand there and reveal his past to the _Winchesters_ of all people, how dare he even _mention _ Aziraphale? Didn't he realize the consequences this would have?

He had half a mind to kill all four of them right here and now. The secret would stay secret that way.

But he knew that he wouldn't. Not only did he need them to save the world, he knew that Aziraphale wouldn't have wanted him to. Aziraphale would have been _horrified _that he'd even considered it_. _And even now, after twenty years, he still couldn't bring himself to do anything that would have horrified his angel. After all, wasn't that why he'd gone into Crossroads in the first place? It honestly wasn't too different from what he once was. Technically, he was still tempting people, still bringing souls into Hell, and really, he wasn't hurting people to do it. Directly, anyway. He certainly wasn't killing!

The voice of the Moose brought him out of his thoughts. "Cas, doesn't that mean that he's…"

Castiel nodded. What were they on about now? "Yes, he is," he replied. He turned to regard Crowley. "There is someone on the front porch that I think you should meet." He tilted his head toward the ceiling. "The trap is broken, after all."

"And why," Crowley snapped, voice icy, "would I want to do that?"

It was Sam who answered. "You're going to want to," he stated. His eyes were wide, and he looked rather like a deer in the headlights. (10) Crowley scowled. Honestly, he wanted nothing more than to just snap away, but now, his curiosity was piqued. With a thought, he teleported to just outside of the front door, masking the sound of his wing beats out of habit.

xXx

"Do you think he'll actually…?"

"Yes, I believe so. He's curious now."

"Thank goodness. The way Aziraphale talked about him earlier was… I can't believe it's _Crowley_, though."

"I'm having a bit of trouble with it myself. Though, you didn't hear the hissing."

"Would somebody tell me what the _hell _is going on?"

Bobby ignored them all.

xXx

They stood on the front porch, face to face. It was a bit of an odd sight, for anyone who might have been watching. Two men, one dressed all in black, and the other much lighter, staring at each other, one looking as if he was facing Satan himself (11), and the other looking as if he was seeing a ghost.

He might as well have been.

"Oh, ah, hello there," the angel stated nervously. "You, ah, well, ah, I suppose that you're, ah, the King of Hell? Oh, dear."

Crowley could only stare.

"You're a bit shorter than I was expecting, I suppose," the angel rambled on, apparently encouraged by his silence. "No offense meant or anything. But, ah, most of the demons I've known are, well, a bit taller."

Crowley found his voice.

"I hope you don't mind."

"Oh, no, I don't-"

The angel cut himself off.

He blinked: once, twice.

He pinched himself.

Crowley couldn't bring himself to speak again, somehow afraid that the being in front of him would disappear if he did.

But he didn't have to.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale whispered, his voice small and tremulous. "Is that… Is that you?"

The King of Hell let out a shuddering breath. "Yeah, angel," he whispered. "It's me."

xXx

(1)- It was written in old Finnish, actually, though Aziraphale didn't actually have to translate any of it. He'd helped to write it, after all, and angels have very good memories.

(2)- Sam noted that at this point, Aziraphale looked as if he wanted to protest the wording of the prayer. He really couldn't blame him.

(3)- Even if Sam was vaguely certain that no one ever said 'pleased as punch' anymore. It was probably a good thing he didn't say it out loud; Dean never would've let him hear the end of it.

(4)- Including Cas.

(5)- Excluding Cas, but counting Dean twice.

(6)- As well he should have. The story involved a flaming sword, a flaming bush, a flaming archangel, and a doubled-over-laughing Serpent.

(7)- Somewhere between terrified and belligerent/angry.

(8)- Sauntered Angel, truthfully, but that just didn't have the same ring to it.

(9)- At this, several things went on in the background. Dean's resounding, "What the HELL?!" was most audible, Sam's "But that makes him..." considerably less so. Bobby, at this point, decided to put his head down on his desk and pretend that he was alone in his house.

(10)- Or a pedestrian realizing that maybe stepping out in front of the Bentley wasn't the best idea ever.

(11)- Which he'd done before.

**A/N: Okay, okay. (grimaces) I said that they'd be meeting in this chapter, but I never said that they'd be **_**talking**_ **in this chapter. I'm afraid that I may have given the wrong impression, thus the super early post to make up for it. (smiles hopefully) Truth is, that's really the best cut off point for this chapter- doing it after their talk makes the whole thing a little… awkward. Cos' that's when the action starts. So, that's my excuse, don't kill me, please.**

…

**Next Chapter (which should hopefully be sometime around this weekend, maybe a few days after): In which Crowley and Aziraphale talk for the first time in twenty years, Raphael makes a dick move, and Sam is stalked by a song.**

**Oh, and I've hit 50 reviews! When I first started this story, I had no idea if anyone was going to want to read it. I didn't know if **_**I **_**was going to want to read it. So thank you** _**so**_ **much for your support, it really means a lot to me.**


	10. Chapter 10

SIOUX FALLS, SOUTH DAKOTA, NOVEMBER 2010 A.D.

"_Crowley?" Aziraphale whispered, his voice small and tremulous. "Is that… Is that you?"_

_The King of Hell let out a shuddering breath. "Yeah, angel," he whispered. "It's me."_

xXx

Crowley was possessing someone.

Vaguely, Aziraphale knew that of all the things that he could choose to fix his thoughts on, this was the least significant. But he couldn't get it out of his head.

Oh, he'd seen Crowley possess people before. There had been one particularly memorable Incident back in the 14th century with… well, now was hardly the time for that. (1) But those occurrences had never lasted long, and were usually only born out of desperation. (2) The angel couldn't recall the last time that Crowley had abandoned his own body out of choice.

Yet, here he was, in flesh that clearly did not belong to him, even if it apparently no longer belonged to anyone else either. The question escaped him before he could think better of it. "Who else was in there with you?" he asked, and it sounded cold, far colder than he'd meant it to be.

Crowley's look of astonishment and disbelief (and joy?) swiftly melted away, only to be replaced with one of anger and hurt. "He was brain dead before I hopped in," he bit out, glaring. "And before you ask, no, he didn't have any family either. No one misses a moderately successful literary agent."

Aziraphale couldn't stop himself from bristling at the tone. "Well, pardon me, your _Majesty_," he stated, returning his stare with equal intensity. Crowley flinched back as if struck. "So it _is _you," the angel pressed. "_You're _the King of Hell. And here I thought I knew you." Anger bubbled up in him as he said the words, banishing the feelings of how _good _and _relieving _it was to see the demon again. Because the Crowley he'd once known, the Crowley that he'd been expecting to find, would never have been capable of the evil it surely took to gain that position. Now, though, he could practically feel the dark aura surrounding him, the horrible, unfamiliar power.

So arose the question: had he ever really known the demon at all?

He voiced it.

Crowley's eyes snapped to his, unfamiliar brown (he must have been suppressing their natural gold color for some reason) burning with an emotion that Aziraphale couldn't identify. "Of course you know me," he stated, his voice lower and raspier than the angel remembered it being. "We've known each other for thousands of years! We've-" The demon cut himself off, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "Angel," he began again, his tone almost pleading now, "I thought you were _dead._" The last word was said so quietly that Aziraphale nearly didn't catch it.

"I was," he replied, just as softly, but caught himself. He had to remember: This was the King of Hell that he was dealing with. The Crowley he once knew could very well be gone. "And tell me," he continued icily, "how long did you wait after my demise to make your power play? Or was it in the making even before then?"

Crowley opened and closed his mouth several times. "Angel-"

"_Don't_," he interrupted, "lie to me, Crowley."

It was a moment before Crowley spoke, and when he did, it wasn't what the angel had been expecting. "Are you seriously," he choked, "suggesting that your death meant nothing to me?" He laughed hysterically, and Aziraphale resisted the urge to put out a hand to steady him. "I… I _found _you in your bookshop, Aziraphale, I found your bloody, broken body under a bookshelf, and your wings were… they were…" He broke off, making a choking sound in the back of his throat. "Even your spectacles were broken," he went on, albeit with obvious difficulty. "I couldn't… I couldn't… I couldn't _stay _there any longer, angel. Without you, I had no reason to… to…" He stopped again, regarding Aziraphale with wide eyes. For once, his expression was completely open; Aziraphale hadn't seen him that vulnerable since before the events of the Apocalypse-That-Really-Wasn't. (3) "Did… Did you honestly think that I'd still be there? As if nothing had ever happened at all? What, was I just supposed to… to forget?"

Aziraphale's heart clenched at the raw tone in Crowley's voice, and he failed miserably in holding back the tide of guilt that swept through him. No, he hadn't thought of it like that, and it was beginning to look as if he might have misjudged the situation terribly. Maybe.

Crowley stepped forward. "Don't you dare," he said, pointing a trembling finger at him, "don't you dare think that I was… I mourned you every damn day for the past twenty years, Aziraphale. It that doesn't mean something, then I don't know what does." Two steps more, and he'd covered the distance between them. Aziraphale was frozen in place, though he knew that he should probably be stepping back. This was the _King of Hell, _for goodness sake! Evil incarnate! It wasn't Crowley anymore, it couldn't be! Crowley wouldn't…

And yet, Aziraphale had known for a long time that he was the force that tempered the demon. Without him, he wasn't sure what Crowley was and wasn't capable of. He certainly wouldn't put it past him to seek revenge on Heaven for his assassination, and ruling Hell happened to put him in the perfect decision to do so.

So… what conclusion was he supposed to draw here?

He was broken out of his thoughts as Crowley pressed something into his hand. His eyes widened fractionally as he realized what it was.

A feather. It was a feather.

It was his feather.

"Oh," he murmured faintly, bringing it to eye level, "yes. Hester tore this out. Yes." He turned the plume slowly. The afternoon light did not reflect off of it; in fact, it was so worn down that if he hadn't known that the original color was white, he wouldn't have been able to guess it. He lifted his gaze to meet Crowley's. "You kept this?" he asked, in awe. "You've kept this with you for twenty years?"

Cautiously, Crowley nodded.

Aziraphale didn't hesitate before reaching forward and pulling Crowley into a warm embrace.

Crowley didn't hesitate before hugging back.

"Oh, my dear," Aziraphale sobbed, and when had he started crying? He couldn't remember. "Oh, my dear, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have… oh, do forgive me, I shouldn't have doubted you, Crowley."

" 'S okay, angel," Crowley muttered, voice somewhat muffled due to the fact that his face was buried in the angel's shoulder. "Just…" He pulled back, brown eyes scanning Aziraphale's face. "Just don't die again, alright?" he demanded with a sudden desperation.

And in that moment, with Crowley staring at him like he was the entire world, Aziraphale knew that this was how it was meant to be. This was still his Crowley, and perhaps he was different now, darker, but that didn't matter because he was _right here_. And the angel planned to keep it that way. So, really, there was only one thing to say. "I won't, I promise." He tried for a watery smile. "We make quite the pair, don't we? Bawling like small children."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," the demon sniffed, hurriedly swiping at his eyes. "I am _not _crying."

"Whatever you say, dear. I-" (4)

Aziraphale was interrupted by a resounding crash from inside the house.

xXx

Dean was more than a little bit frustrated.

Mostly, it was because things had been going so damn _well _for the past ten minutes. Relatively speaking anyway. He'd just gotten done telling Cas about why it is not cool to leave someone's soul in Hell, and Cas had just gotten done having a little freak-out session and apologizing to Sam, and Sam had just gotten done forgiving Cas, and Bobby had just gotten done informing them all that they were 'idgits'. As if this was news.

Things had been looking up. (5)

Then, an angel burst in, and it all went to hell.

This, Dean realized very quickly, was not one of the good guys. Within the span of a moment, he, Sam, and Bobby had been pushed up against a wall, and a lamp had been knocked over. The angel attempted to do the same to Cas, and for a terrifying moment, it looked like it might actually work, that this son of a bitch was stronger than Cas.

But Cas gritted his teeth and held his ground, and Dean would have been cheering if the force pushing him to the wall would just let him _breathe. _Beside him, he could tell that Bobby and Sam were having the same problem. _Come on, Cas. Take out this bastard, _he silently urged, and Cas' eyes darted to him, obviously hearing his sort-of prayer. He nodded at the hunter, and the angel blade dropped from his sleeve.

"Castiel," the other angel drawled. "I was not expecting to find you here." He held up his own blade and took on a threatening stance. The lack of air was the only thing that stopped Dean from making a comment on the fact that only douchebags say cliches like that.

"Then who _were_ you expecting to find?" Cas replied, slowly advancing. "You should not have been able to find the Winchesters. They are protected."

Yeah, how _had _that happened? The rib sigils should have stopped any angels besides Cas from finding them. Ever.

"This is not about your precious mud monkeys." The angel darted forward, and the two exchanged a series of rapid blows that left Dean's head spinning. Though, that might just have been the oxygen deprivation. "We seek the demon Crowley."

_Son of a bitch!_

If Crowley had led this dick here, there was going to be a problem. This problem would be resolved with the Colt. Dean tried to avoid thinking about the fact that if the bastard really was a fallen angel, or whatever, the bullets might not work, just like what happened with Lucifer.

And now he was going to stop thinking about that. The burning in his lungs was making it hard to concentrate anyway.

"What do you want with Crowley?" Cas demanded. "Or rather, what does Raphael want with Crowley?"

"The King of Hell would be a useful asset."

"I realize that. What makes you think he would help you?"

The angel smiled. "What makes you think he wouldn't? He will join our side, believe me. After all, what is the alternative?" Suddenly, in a move so fast that Dean couldn't make it out (6), the angel lunged forward and brought his blade down upon Cas'.

Cas' sword dropped to the floor with a clatter.

"Because it looks very much like you are about to lose," the angel finished, advancing on Castiel, who was rapidly backing up, but just as rapidly finding out that there was nowhere to back up to.

_No, no, no, no, no. C'mon, Cas, pull something out of your hat._

Blue eyes met Dean's. "But I do not have a-"

Several things happened at once.

The angel lunged.

Cas threw up his arms, as if that would do any good.

Dean's heart leapt into his throat. Cas could just teleport out of here, he knew, but he also knew that his friend wouldn't abandon them to the mercy of this angel, even if it meant his death. He opened his mouth in a silent… something. A scream? A shout? Yelled profanities? He wasn't sure. It was getting really, really hard to think coherently now.

Then: one second before the blade would have sliced open Cas' chest, the homicidal angel flew backward to hit the wall, and the pressure holding Dean finally relented. He collapsed to the floor; beside him, he could hear Sam and Bobby doing the same. Not that he really cared at the moment. He was too busy reveling in the fact that he could _breathe _again.

"I wouldn't go count on that yet, sweetheart." Crowley's voice sounded as if it was coming through a long tunnel. "Looks to me like he's doing a halfway decent job. Even if he does spend too much time with his boy toy."

That comment was enough to warrant his attention. He blinked the spots out of his vision, and Dean finally felt as if he could move without hacking up a lung. He stood up, taking in the scene in front of him.

Crowley stood in the center of the living room, his stance screaming casualness. But there was an underlying tension to him- it was obvious in the tightness of his eyes, and… damn. Was his suit actually rumpled? Regardless of that, though, he was holding the angel to the wall with apparent ease and staring him down, eyes narrowed.

"You…You are Crowley?" The angel trailed off (7), eyes flicking between Crowley and Cas and back to Crowley again. "You are working for Castiel?" He sounded shocked, as if he hadn't even considered this possibility. To be fair, Dean wouldn't have considered it possible either, if he hadn't heard it out of Cas' own mouth.

Mental note: remember to explain to Cas why demon deals aren't a good Plan A. Even if it seemed like this one wasn't turning out too badly.

"In tangent with," the demon corrected. "Slightly diagonal to." He sniffed, looking the angel up and down with disdain. "Even if I weren't, I wouldn't be caught dead in Raphael's vicinity. He's got this annoying habit of killing demons he doesn't like." He lifted an eyebrow. "And since he doesn't like anything, well, I'm staying away unless someone manages to get that stick out of his ass. I'm not an idiot."

"That's debatable," Aziraphale murmured. With a start, Dean realized that the angel was standing a few steps behind the demon. He seemed a bit nervous, eyes darting between Crowley and the captive angel, and perhaps he looked a bit affronted by Crowley's word choice, but in regards to the demon himself, he appeared to be completely comfortable. _Huh. Cas was actually right about those two, _he thought absently. _Weird._

"You're not helping," Crowley snapped back, though it lacked any real bite. "And it's really not."

At this, Aziraphale coughed something that sounded suspiciously like '_lost the Antichrist' ._ Crowley turned an interesting shade of purple.

"You are seriously not helping!" he snapped again, turning his attention back to the captive angel, who, Dean noted, had been watching the exchange with bemusement. He couldn't blame him; this whole new Crowley/Aziraphale dynamic was bizarre. Looking around, he noticed that Sam and Cas didn't seem confused at all, which didn't surprise him all that much, but Bobby's expression bordered on total bewilderment. Dean figured that as long as at least one other person had no idea what was going on, he'd be okay.

"You… who are you?" the angel asked, directing the question to Aziraphale, and bringing Dean's attention back to the conversation.

"_I'll _be asking the questions, if you don't mind," Crowley replied. "Now, how did you-"

"You're Aziraphale," the angel realized. "The Principality. I recognize your grace. But you are meant to be dead."

Crowley began to glare bloody murder, and Aziraphale's eyes widened. Dean was almost tempted to warn this angel to _just shut up. _Because getting Crowley pissed? Not a good idea.

"Any other clever little comments you'd like to add?" the demon snarked. "While you still can? Or maybe something useful?"

The angel narrowed his eyes. "I will never betray Raphael! Never! He will emerge victorious! His is the Way, the One Way, the Path that our Father decr-"

Suddenly, there was a bright flash of light, and the angel's wings became an interesting addition to the wallpaper. Dean blinked, watching as Crowley stepped back, pulling the blade (he must have picked it up from where Cas dropped it) back out of the angel's chest, the empty vessel slumping to the floor. All eyes were on him- the humans' gazes were mostly apathetic, and Cas' a bit disapproving, but Aziraphale's was just shocked. "What?" he snapped. "He was starting to monologue!"

Dean shrugged. "He's got a point."

"Dean." That was Sam. Apparently, he didn't see the point.

"He could have given us more information, Crowley," Cas muttered at the same time. "Such as how they tracked you."

"He was monologuing. That's not useful information. He probably didn't know anything anyway!" Crowley glared. "And it's really not all that hard to track a summoning spell. If you didn't want anyone to pick up on it, you _should have just called!_" The last few words were said in… well, not quite a shout, but something pretty close, and Dean guessed that he was only toning it down for Aziraphale's sake.

"We didn't know that it could be tracked," he started, stepping forward, "so why don't you just-"

"Did you have to kill him, though?" Aziraphale interrupted quietly. "Couldn't you just have…"

Dean fell silent, not wanting to touch that one with a ten foot pole. The fact was, he felt bad for the guy. He looked like he'd never had to see any real violence in his life, and while the hunter knew that that assumption probably wasn't all that accurate, he was sure that angels had never fought angels like this since Lucifer fell. It had to be a shock to come back to life and find a situation like this.

Crowley turned to face the angel, his expression softening a fraction of a degree. (8) "We're at war, Aziraphale," he told him, gentler than Dean would've thought possible. "I'm sorry, but in war, there are casualties. He wasn't on our side, angel, and he wasn't going to be."

"But-"

"It was a merciful death," Cas put in, though he avoided Aziraphale's eyes. "It wouldn't have ended in any better way."

Aziraphale didn't look very happy with this.

"Shaddup, all of you!" Bobby demanded suddenly. Dean glanced down; the older hunter still hadn't risen from his spot on the floor and was instead sitting crosslegged, face strained. "Do ya hear that?"

Everyone fell silent. Dean attempted to catch whatever it was that Bobby was listening to.

It was music.

Familiar music.

Beside him, Sam went pale. Slowly, as if in a trance, he pulled out his cell phone. The words UNKNOWN CALLER flashed in red letters on the screen, and the strains of the ringtone drifted through the air.

_It was the heat of the moment…_

xXx

(1)- Suffice it to say that in the centuries following this Incident, the demon had absolutely refused to discuss it, and in fact put his mind to hating the 14th century in general.

(2)- Or a rampaging herd of llamas. In Peru. _That_ had been interesting, though, to this day, Crowley claimed that this wasn't his fault.

(3)- A few weeks after it'd all happened, when it'd still been looking as if their Superiors had forgotten the whole thing, Aziraphale and Crowley had spent a whole afternoon getting completely plastered, then coming up with names for the event. Aziraphale's personal favorite was 'Armageddon't', as it was short, to the point, and easy to remember. Crowley took to calling it 'Adam's-Really-Big-But-Not-All-That-Important-In-The-End-Temper-Tantrum' .

It's probably worth restating that they were both really, really drunk at this point. If they'd been human, they would have died from alcohol poisoning.

(4)- To this day, no one knows what he was going to say, even him, because he has quite forgotten. It was likely nothing particularly profound, though, so it really doesn't matter.

(5)- If, of course, he was forgetting what Cas had just gotten done telling them about Crowley. _That_ was just weird, and he seriously didn't feel like working through all the implications of this new information.

(6)- Though, again, that might just have been the asphyxiation talking.

(7)- And here, Dean noted that _he_ didn't sound like he was having any trouble with breathing at all. That just wasn't right.

(8)- Okay, it was a little more than a fraction of a degree, but Dean thought that it was weird enough that his face was softening at all, so he was lucky to get any credit.

**A/N: Uhhh. Did I say… last weekend? Well… uhhhh…. heh heh heh. It's here now, though! Uhhh… don't kill me?**

**This one was a bear, though. I couldn't get the first scene right, then I couldn't get the second scene right, and it was just… uhg. And then I had an audition for chorus (which I made, yay!) and then it was my birthday (and, oddly enough, 14 doesn't feel all that different from 13), and everything was just all over the place.**

**Aaaaaaanyway, Next Chapter: In which we find out why Sam's been hearing this song everywhere (as if you haven't already figured it out), Team Free Will does research, and Raphael continues to be a dick.**

**Oh, and, by the way, did anyone catch my very small, subtle Mortal Instruments reference? Does anyone here **_**read**_ **Mortal Instruments? Anyone?**


	11. Chapter 11

SIOUX FALLS, SOUTH DAKOTA, NOVEMBER 2010 A.D.

Sam froze.

This, of course, was perfectly understandable. Even if he did look like a bit of an idiot to all those who were searching his face for some sort of reaction. (1)

What those watching him didn't see (2), though, was that his mind was running somewhere close to warp speed. The radio yesterday morning, that hadn't been anything to write home about. The car radio had been a weird coincidence, but nothing more than that. But this? This could no longer be considered normal.

Which, of course, meant that it was abnormal. Which, of course, also meant that it was supernatural. Of course.

And this song? It could only mean one being. As impossible as Sam had thought it was.

And it had been pretty impossible too. He and Dean had driven back to the motel to make sure that the archangel was actually dead. When they arrived, the motel had been ancient-looking, rotting and falling apart. Eventually, they'd found their way back to what was once the conference room, and, sure enough, they'd found him. Winged imprints and all.

They'd given him a hunter's burial. It had seemed only right, seeing as he'd given his life for them.

Now, though, it was starting to look as if that wasn't the case. Maybe it had never been the case at all.

"You gonna answer that, Sammy?" his brother finally prompted. Sam glanced at his face; it was impassive, but there was understanding in his eyes, and Sam felt a rush of gratitude. Even after knowing what he'd done, Dean still stuck by him. And he'd stick by him through this… whatever it turned out to be. Jerkily, Sam nodded, pressing his thumb to the blinking button.

Nothing happened. The song kept playing.

He tried again.

Same thing.

He looked up from the phone, his gaze desperately sweeping the room. Dean and Bobby both looked sympathetic, but puzzled, so they clearly had no idea what to do here. Cas and Crowley just looked confused, as neither of them knew what significance this song had. Then, his eyes fell on Aziraphale, who was staring at the phone hard enough to burn a hole in it. (3) "Sam," he said, voice low and urgent, "may I see that?" Sam handed it over without a word, glad to no longer be responsible for it, and hoping that the angel had some idea of what was going on.

Crowley forked an eyebrow. "Do you have _any _idea how to work that?" he questioned dryly, clearly expecting a negative answer.

Aziraphale shot him a look. "Yes, dear, I have figured out the basics." He turned his attention back to the object. "I haven't the slightest idea what this… Candy Crush thing is, but I know how to make a call. Though-" Another look was sent. "-I would very much like to have your number. I did not enjoy that horrible 'call failed' message I got."

"Wait, wh-"

"Ah ha!" the angel shouted. Sam peered at the phone in his hand. It didn't look much different, and the Song (4) continued to play. He raised an eyebrow, and Aziraphale hurried to explain. "I've been thinking on it ever since it played in the car," he began. "See, there was just something a bit… _off _I could sense about it." He raised a hand defensively at Sam's look of astonishment. "I didn't bring it up because from what you'd told me earlier, I didn't think that it was possible. But here it is again." He turned his attention back to the phone, which was starting to, oddly enough, glow, presumably as Aziraphale worked some angel mojo on it. "Listen."

Sam listened, at first, unable to discern exactly what he was supposed to be listening to. But then, between the slight gaps between the words, he heard it.

_-nights you sit -_ -lo? _-beside the phone -_ Pick up the- _What were the things_ -damn phone!- _you wanted for-_

Sam knew that voice, as staticky and Song-overridden as it was. He had very, very mixed feelings about that voice.

"Hang on," Aziraphale muttered. "Let me see if I can get a better connection." Slowly, the Song faded away into the background, leaving a paler, but pleased-looking Aziraphale, a brightly glowing smartphone, and a voice that Sam really hadn't expected to ever hear again.

"Y'know, it's rude to hold out on a guy like this. I mean, seriously, you don't pick up my calls, you don't answer my letters, you don't acknowledge my existence, or… Why am I even bothering? I mean, it's not like I've got the power to connect properly right now, so you can't hear me anyway-"

"I believe you underestimate the ingenuity of those present here, brother," Cas broke the silence. "We hear you… uh… loud and clear?" At this, he glanced over at Dean, as if to make sure he got the phrase right, and Sam smiled, despite the situation. Typical Cas.

There was silence on the other end of the line, and then: "It's about damn time, then! What took you so long?"

It was at this point that Sam found his voice. And his annoyance. Any grateful thoughts he may have been entertaining toward the archangel flew out the window. "How about the fact that instead of calling like a normal person, you stalked me with a friggin' song!"

Nothing but static replied to that. Aziraphale frowned, shaking the phone. (5) The glow encasing it intensified slightly, and Gabriel's voice filtered back through the white noise. "-don't exactly have my phone on me right now, and Holy Fire isn't helping the connection any, so you're lucky to get that much!"

Everyone exchanged worried glances, and with no small effort, Sam pushed back his irritation, opting instead to focus on the matter at hand. After all, the mention of Holy Fire could only mean one thing.

"Hello? You still there?" the archangel's voice came again, though he was becoming less and less audible by the second. "Hello?"

Aziraphale was the first to recover. "Yes, Gabriel, we're still here," he replied. "What's this about Holy Fire, then?"

There was silence on the other end of the line for a full three seconds. (6) "Wait a sec, Aziraphale?" He sounded completely flabbergasted, and Sam made a mental note of it, as it is generally difficult to surprise an ancient celestial being, and it was not likely to happen again anytime soon. "I thought you were dead, bro!"

"I was, and to be fair, we thought the same of you." Aziraphale sighed, and Sam got the distinct impression that he was accustomed to dealing with the archangel. "Now, Gabriel, is there any way that you can strengthen this connection? I'm beginning to have a bit of trouble holding it up at this end."

Gabriel laughed dryly, and Sam realized that it actually did sound _dry_, as if his throat was severely dehydrated. "That might be at my end, actually. It's taking a lot out of me to use any power at all right now."

"Ah. Holy Fire?"

"Yeah. Long story short, I met up with Raph, he got the drop on me, and… well, let's just say that he didn't approve of the side I took during the Apocalypse. Thus… am."

Sam's eyes widened at the break in the words, and he glanced at Aziraphale in alarm. "What? You're starting to break up," he cut in, brow furrowing. If they lost the connection now…

"...said… here I…" Suddenly, a bout of violent coughing was heard over the line, and then… nothing but static. Aziraphale passed the phone back to Sam, and he took it on instinct, his mind a million miles away, thoughts bouncing around in no particular order.

_We lost the connection._

_Geez, he sounded pretty bad at the end there._

_We don't know where he is._

_We should probably try to rescue him._

_But we don't know where he is!_

_How the _hell _is this even _remotely _helpful to the situation?_

"So…" Dean's voice broke him out of his thoughts. "What exactly just happened?"

"It's quite simple, really. There's this thing called a phone, which you may have heard of, and what it does is-"

"Shut up, Crowley."

"That was a distress call," Cas stated quietly, ignoring the demon. With a bit of surprise, Sam noticed that his face was drawn tight with worry. He hadn't thought that the angel had a close relationship with Gabriel, but that assumption was only based on their interactions during the T.V. Land fiasco, so now the Winchester wondered if he'd have to revise it.

"A rather urgent one, I think," Aziraphale added. "I don't like the sound of that cough at all."

"Great. That's great. Let's go rescue him." Dean crossed his arms, looking extremely put out. "Except, not only is he an asshole, but we have no clue where he is."

"Well, he can't be that hard to find, can he?" All eyes turned to him, and Sam immediately regretted opening his mouth. "I mean," he pushed through, "he's an _archangel._ Even contained, that's got to create some sort of… I don't know… trackable… thing," he finished weakly.

Everyone stared at him. Bobby muttered something that sounded like 'idgit' (7) and stood up, making his way over to his desk. "Trackable thing?" Dean finally asked. "Sam, you feeling okay?"

Sam shrugged defensively. "It's valid," he insisted.

"He's not wrong," Crowley agreed, a smirk on his face. "I can get some of my people on it. They'll be able to turn up something."

"I sincerely doubt that… your people will have much luck," Cas stated scathingly. "Raphael will have him well secured. We don't even know if he's on Earth."

"And we don't want demons anywhere near this," Dean added, and Sam couldn't help but concur. Somehow, he thought that sending demons to look for an archangel wasn't the best plan in the world.

"Then I'll help him," Aziraphale offered. "I'm sure that, between the two of us, we can find some trace." At this, Crowley looked very much like he wanted to object, but a steely glance from the angel clammed him up. "We'll come back and get you when he's been located."

"Okay then," Sam considered. "Right. You get on that, and we'll call you if we get anything."

A few moments later, the pair were gone, leaving Sam to hope that sending them off like that had been the right thing to do.

xXx

ELSEWHERE, AT THE SAME TIME (EXCEPT, IN ANOTHER TIME ZONE)

It was raining.

This, in of itself, was not unusual. It rained in places like these all the time.

However, the fact that someone was outside in this wet mess would have seemed unusual to anyone else who'd been outside to see it. Of course, there wasn't anyone else outside in this wet mess, because that would have been unusual, and what person would even want to be outside in this weather anyway?

The answer to that being: no person at all.

The figure shifted uncomfortably, leaning on the wall. He'd been standing here for far too long, in his opinion, and the being that he was supposed to be meeting was late.

He didn't appreciate tardiness.

"C'mon, you wanker," he muttered under his breath. "Where are you?"

"Right here," a voice stated from behind him. The figure turned, and, sure enough, there was a man there. The rain didn't touch him, and he almost seemed to be glowing. The expression on his face was one of distaste. The figure was well acquainted with expressions like that- he saw ones just like it nearly every day.

"So," he began, "you Raphael then?"

"Indeed I am," the archangel sniffed, turning up his nose. "And you are the demon, I presume. No one else would be lurking like that at this hour of the night."

The figure straightened. "You've got that right," he agreed. He was rather proud of his lurking skills.

"Fine. Then us discuss the reason for this meeting. I have other places to be, and beings far more important than you to talk to." The insult passed far over the figure's head, and he nodded eagerly.

"Right then." He grinned, revealing teeth that were sharper than could possibly be natural. "You said you needed my help."

"Need is too strong a word," Raphael corrected. "I would be interested in acquiring your services, but if you're not interested, I can always get someone else."

That sobered the figure up immediately. If there was one thing he could recognize, it was a threat. "No need for that," he told him. "Whatever you want. What is it you want?" The last bit came out a little bit higher pitched than he would have liked, but then again, this was an archangel, a being that could destroy him with a thought, so perhaps he could be excused his nervousness.

"I seek to walk the Path chosen for me by my Father. I seek to bring about Paradise," Raphael started. The figure stared at him blankly, and the archangel changed track. (8) "Your King is defying me," he explained slowly, as if to a three year old. "I do not like that. I want you to destroy him."

"Huh. Why can't you do that yourself?" the figure questioned, tilting his head as he tried to work it through.

"I am above matters such as this."

This time, the insult was obvious, and the figure bristled, forgetting for a moment who he was talking to. "Hey, now wait a second, why should I do anything for you if you're so-"

Raphael leaned in close, and the figure had to back up a step from the Holy Power that surrounded him. "I'll give you two very good reasons," he hissed, or said in as close to a hiss as an archangel can get. "One: if you don't, I'll kill you and find someone else. And two…" He paused, a small, menacing smile appearing on the face of his vessel. "Well, wouldn't you like to be in charge of Hell?"

The figure's eyes widened. Him? In charge of Hell? The very thought was ludicrous… or was it? Now that he thought of it, the current King, Crowley, wasn't doing a proper job of things. For the love of Satan, he'd converted most of the place into one big waiting line! Who did that? It reminded him of another demon by the same name, a demon that he was still waiting to get his revenge on.

If he was in charge of Hell, he could find the flash bastard for sure…

Oh, yes. This idea was sounding better and better by the second. He nodded eagerly, sticking out a hand for the archangel to shake. "You've got yourself a deal," he agreed. "Pleasure doing business with you, Raphael."

The archangel stared at the extended appendage as if it were covered with maggots. "I would say the same, Duke Hastur," he sniffed, "but dealing with filth like you is never a pleasure. Sometimes, though, the ends truly do justify the means."

xXx

(1)- To be fair, though, they looked like idiots too, gawking at him like that when there was no reaction forthcoming.

(2)- Except for those who could read minds. Meaning, everyone except Dean and Bobby.

(3)- And in fact, the phone was giving all it had just to keep itself together.

(4)- Sam decided in that moment to give it a capital letter. It wasn't as if there was any other song that was as actively involved in his life anyway.

(5)- Because the angel didn't know that shaking things never actually makes them work better, and can, in the case of soda, in fact make things a lot worse. Luckily for him, the phone wanted to please.

(6)- And Sam would know because he counted each blessed one.

(7)- It could also have been 'midget', but considering Sam's size, it probably wasn't.

(8)- He'd realized, at this point, that the being that he was dealing with was, for lack of a better word, a bit stupid. The archangel resolved to put this in simpler terms, using small words and conjuring up a few diagrams if it was necessary.

**A/N: And the plot thickens! Hastur really is kind of an idiot, isn't he? Sorry bout the lack of A/C interaction, but well… next chapter… maybe…. Anyway, hope you liked!**

**And a special thank you to Firefly070995, who made me some really awesome cover art!**

**Next Chapter: In which Aziraphale and Crowley try to track down Gabriel, and Dean and Sam have a good talk.**

**Oh, btw, if anyone was wondering about the Mortal Instruments reference last chapter, it was the whole stampede of llamas in Peru thing. It wasn't, in fact, Crowley who caused that. It was Magnus. :)**


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